


Residuum

by Coraniaid



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Batarians (Mass Effect), Canon-Typical Violence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Gen, Minor Character Death, Science Fiction, Turians (Mass Effect)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 97,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21673558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coraniaid/pseuds/Coraniaid
Summary: In 2148, explorers on Mars stumbled across the remains of an ancient spacefaring civilization.  In the decade after this discovery, humanity spread out into the stars, establishing colonies on Eden Prime, Terra Nova, and a dozen other new worlds.This expansion was only possible because of the abandoned treasures of the long-gone Prothean species: relay networks that linked worlds light-years apart; technology that controlled the very fabric of space and time.  Some said that the secrets unearthed on Mars could be the greatest discovery in history.  Humanity's future seemed bright...But in 2156, the Charon mass relay went dark, leaving the human colony worlds cut off from Earth and the Sol System.Now, almost twenty-five years later, those colony worlds are a Protectorate of the turian Hierarchy, which struggles against the batarian Hegemony for control of the Attican Traverse.  And in the forgotten ruins of the Prothean Empire, an ancient threat to all galactic civilisation begins to stir once more.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. Five Moments

| One Year Ago | 2179 CE, old Earth style | a shuttle en route to the Resolute |

Talitha stared out of the shuttle window. The world she was leaving - her home for the past few months - was already just a pale dot, barely visible in the darkness of space.

 _I don't think I'm ready for this_ , she thought.

Her parents hadn't been happy about her decision to sign up as an auxiliary, or when she'd tried to talk to them about her excitement at visiting an alien world. "You're from Earth, Talitha!" her mother had said angrily. "You already live on an alien world."

 _Never mind that it was the one I was born on, mom_ , she thought.

Of course, that wasn't the first time she and her parents hadn't seen eye to eye. She absent-mindedly put her hand up to touch the triangular pattern painted on the right side of her face. Nobody was sure where the fashion had started, but within a few years of First Contact, it seemed as though all the younger generation on the human colony worlds had adopted the turian practice of decorating their faces to show their colony of origin. Not as elaborate - or as permanent - as the face markings of the turians, but still clearly influenced by the older species' custom.

Talitha's parents - and several of her friends' parents as well - had been scandalised. Maybe that was part of the appeal. There had been lectures about cultural assimilation, the loss of identity, the memory of Earth … but what did any of the mean, really? The Charon relay had gone dark and no amount of research - whether by the Hierarchy, by the Council, or by the ill-fated Terra Firma movement - had managed to reactivate it. Whatever had happened to Earth, it was gone.

What mattered now was the humans who remained. The Remnant, as some people had begun to call them. And what they had to do, Talitha had decided, was take the chances they'd been offered by the Hierarchy, and by the Council, to earn a place in galactic society. Not sit sullenly on the colony worlds, dreaming of lost Earth. Not that her parents were ever going to accept that, Talitha realised.

Shaking her head, she turned to look at the woman sitting next to her. Unsurprisingly, Communications Specialist Traynor was engrossed in her data pad.

"More chess, Traynor?" Talitha sighed. "Don't you ever get tired of that game?"

"And good morning to you, too, Private Komarov." replied the communications specialist brightly.

Talitha had met Samantha Traynor a few days after arriving on Palaven. She was a native of Horizon, as the three green stripes along her left cheek made clear. This was not the first time they'd argued about Sam's odd fascination with a game that had been antiquated a century before either of them had been born.

"Chess is an important part of our cultural and intellectual heritage," Sam insisted, not for the first time. "It might not have the same galactic appeal as kepesh-yakshi, but it was a part of human history for centuries. People - our ancestors - devoted themselves to trying to understand it, to improve at it, to teach others about it. If we don't keep playing, who will remember their efforts?"

She frowned in concentration, tapping silently at her datapad for a few seconds.

"In any case," she added, "I think you'll find the Hierarchy approves of its auxiliaries improving themselves through regular training in a sport."

"Chess isn't a sport, Traynor." Talitha said firmly.

"Isn't it?" Sam looked up from the datapad, a puzzled look on her face.

"Of course not!" Talitha protested. "Sports require training, physical preparation … I mean, Spirits, sports make you sweat."

"Your point being?" Sam said.

"Wait…" said Talitha, slowly. "Chess makes you sweat?"

"It does if you're doing it right," Sam smirked.

Talitha rolled her eyes at that.

"Okay, history and tradition mean something, I suppose," - they certainly did to her parents - "but why care about getting better at something that even a cheap VI will always be able to beat you at?" she asked.

"That's a strange attitude for a pilot to take, Komarov." replied Sam. "Or don't you realise any decent VI could land that shuttle without you?"

Talitha would have protested that, but she supposed it was true enough. Turian customs - not to mention Council law - meant that VIs weren't trusted with flying craft with living beings on board, but there really wasn't any technical reason they couldn't do it.

"Besides," Sam continued calmly, "Some things are worth doing even if you'll never be the best." She paused and looked up. "And speaking of the best..."

Talitha turned her head to see what had attracted her friend's attention. Another human - an officer, by her uniform - had just entered the main part of the shuttle. There was something strangely familiar about her, but what?

 _Oh, Spirits,_ Talitha realised suddenly, _It's her._ She'd been right - she really wasn't ready to face her new commanding officer.

Three years ago, just weeks after the Hierarchy had captured Torfan, anti-turian extranet sites had started putting up images and video that - they claimed - had been leaked from body cameras and remote surveillance drones. Images and videos of the final few hours of the assault on the batarians' position. Images of what the batarian Hegemony and its supporters were soon calling the 'war crimes' of the 'turian aggressors'.

Though, in fact, it wasn't any of the turians who captured the attention of the human public. Not on Mindoir, anyway. On Mindoir, public attention focused on a single human woman. A biotic, survivor of the First Blitz, and one of the very first humans to sign up as an auxiliary. Shepard.

She was never identified in the videos directly, but people who had known her family on Mindoir recognised her, and soon the word spread. Once you started to look for her, she appeared surprisingly often in the leaked footage. Standing in front of a mixed group of turian and human biotics, barking out orders. Walking through underground tunnels, shielded by blue biotic energy, striding over ground filthy with the blood and ichor of dead or dying soldiers Staring down coldly at a kneeling batarian, raising a pistol to his head, and pulling the trigger.

Even as the Hierarchy praised and promoted her for her role in the mission, others -Talitha's parents among them - had been circulating the videos, muttering darkly to themselves about what being raised by turians could do to a human child. It seemed that everyone knew Shepard's story on Mindoir and everybody had opinion about it. The Primarchs and most of Talitha's generation called her a hero, but to others she had become known as something else.

And the woman standing at the other side of the shuttle was obviously, unmistakably her. _The Butcher_. She'd grown out her hair since the videos - Talitha raised a hand to her own cropped hair self-consciously - but in other aspects she seemed to have changed very little since then. Though slightly below average height, she carried herself with the air of someone used to giving orders.

Talitha remembered her last fight with her parents. "Is that what you'll let them turn you into?" her mother had demanded. "Another Butcher?"

Talitha hadn't had an answer. She certainly didn't want to be as infamous as Shepard. She was too young to remember the First Blitz; didn't hate the batarians in the way it was said that Shepard did. But she couldn't live like her parents either: burying their heads in the soil and pretending that Earth wasn't gone.

"Come on," said Sam suddenly, interrupting Talitha's reverie. "Let's go and introduce ourselves." Sam had discarded her datapad at last.

Before Talitha could protest, her friend was dragging her forwards. _She doesn't know,_ realised Talitha, suddenly. Traynor wasn't from Mindoir. To her, Shepard wasn't the Butcher of Torfan, she was just their new commander. Talitha hoped desperately she wouldn't embarrass herself.

Talitha was still trying to think about what to say when they arrived.

"Communications Specialist Samantha Traynor, ma'am. " said Sam, saluting. "And this is Private Komarov."

"Tal. Er. Talitha. Um. Ma'am." she stammered.

Shepard's answering smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Relax, Komarov." she said. Her voice was unexpectedly soft. From far away, Talitha hadn't noticed the pale scar that ran almost the whole length of the right side of her face, only narrowly avoiding her eye. She also hadn't noticed that Shepard's face was entirely unpainted. _Has it always been like that?_ Talitha wondered. She wished she'd looked at the videos her parents had shared more closely.

Shepard looked at her thoughtfully. "So, you're from Mindoir." she said.

It wasn't really a question, of course, but Talitha felt the urge to answer anyway.

"Yes, ma'am." she said. _And so are you!_ she thought, but didn't say. It was weird - _almost as weird as talking to the Butcher_ \- but if the Commander didn't want people to know where she was from, that was her own business. And why else would she not decorate her face?

"I'm from Mindoir myself," said Shepard, almost diffidently. "But you probably knew that. I … I've heard I'm not very popular back home, these days."

Talitha didn't dare to say anything for a moment. But Sam was staring at her, challenging her to reply.

"Hav- have you ever thought of coming back?" she asked. It wasn't exactly the question she'd meant to ask, but close enough.

Shepard shook her head slowly.

"Not much for me to go back to, Komarov" she said quietly.

* * *

| Twenty Years Ago | 2160 CE, old Earth style | Mindoir |

The fields were full of monsters. 'Batarians', she'd learn to call them later, but she didn't know that word yet. Easier to think of them as monsters, anyway.

Last night she'd celebrated her sixth birthday. Her extended family - uncles, aunts, cousins and more distant relatives - had gathered in the family home, travelling from all over the world to get there. Not quite all her family, of course - her parents still used to talk in hushed tones about the relatives left behind on Earth when they thought she wasn't listening - but everybody on this world, anyway. It had been good to see them all again, to see her parents happier than they'd been for a long time..

Every one of them was now dead.

The monsters arrived early that morning. Their ships dropped down from the sky before the sun had risen over the horizon. She'd been woken up by the sound of screams, humans and cattle alike, as strange lights flickered overhead. Buildings the lights touched collapsed, melted into nothingness, or burst into flames. People the lights touched fared no better.

The house she grew up in was now a smouldering ruin. The tractor that her mother and grandfather spent so long repairing last year had been wrecked beyond recovery, tipped onto its side in a pool of mud and engine oil. The air was thick with the smell of charcoal and blood.

She'd been lying under the tractor for … she wasn't sure how long for. Hours, maybe? She'd always had somebody to ask about these things, or a machine to check, but now she was alone. It felt like it been a long time. Eventually she realised that she was going to have to move.

 _If I can just make it to the Jankowski's farm...,_ she thought _._ They were sure to be able to help. Her parents had always told her that if anything happened, that's where she should go. They'd been talking about a dust storm or a power failure, but … well, surely this was an emergency too? If she could reach the Jankowski's, just a few miles away, she was sure things would be okay. She was sure.

But the fields were still full of monsters. Strangely proportioned, twisted creatures with green skin and four bulbous eyes. Some of them were digging through the rubble, while others wandered around the ruined fields, dragging bizarre dog-like animals with them on long thick leashes.

 _Wait until they've turned away, then run for it_ she told herself.

It was just like playing tag with her cousins. They'd done it hundreds of times. She was a fast runner and she just had to get to the Jankowski's farm. She wouldn't think about what would happen if she was caught. The nearest monsters had turned to walk away from her. _This is it_. She took two rapid breaths, then ran.

Almost as soon as she started a terrible cry sounded behind her. Alien voices raised in anger; the not-dog creatures barking and howling. They'd seen her. She risked a look back over her shoulder - the monsters were chasing after her, shouting words she couldn't understand.

She was running as fast as she could, but it wasn't fast enough. They were going to catch her. She hadn't even made it as far as the edge of the fields.

She looked up towards the setting sun. Somebody was standing on the side of the hill, looking down toward her. _No, not somebody … something_. Another alien, but this one didn't look like the others. He didn't exactly look human, either, but he didn't seem to be working with the monsters. Maybe he could-

"Get down."

He didn't shout, but his voice carried. She threw herself to the ground as the air above her filled with bullets and blue energy. The shouting voices behind her turned to screams.

She pulled herself to her feet slowly. The new alien didn't seem to have been scratched. He holstered the pistol he'd drawn and cocked his head slightly to one side. He had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. And he was tall - taller than anybody she knew. He seemed to be wearing a suit of armour of a type she'd never seen before. It made him look something like a skeleton; of a bird maybe, or a dinosaur.

"My name is Saren," the alien said. "I'm here to help. What should I call you?"

She didn't answer, but turned slowly to look at the bodies of her pursuers lying face-down in the field behind her. Five of the monsters. They seemed a lot smaller now.

"Did they hurt you?" the alien asked, gently. _Saren_ , she reminded herself. His accent was very strange. She wondered where he'd learned to speak English. She knew it was the common language of the colony worlds - the one language they all had in common, to one degree or another. Perhaps it was the common language of aliens, as well.

The thought of how her grandfather would have reacted to that idea made her smile, briefly. At home, he'd muttered angrily whenever anybody spoke anything but Russian or Polish. Then she remembered the monsters dragging her grandfather out of the burning farmhouse, and her smiled faded.

She realised she'd been silent for too long, and that Saren was waiting for an answer.

"Um. No," she said slowly, "They haven't hurt me, but-"

"Don't worry, child. They will not hurt you, I promise." Saren knelt down so that their eyes were level. She wanted to say something, but she didn't trust herself to speak.

She looked up, behind him, her eyes widening slowly. More monsters, creeping up behind them.

"How many?" he asked softly. She didn't know how he knew.

"S-seven."

"Well, then." He seemed to frown, his voice becoming less certain "You may wish to close your eyes."

She did want to, but she couldn't look away. She'd never seen anybody that moved like him before. His limbs didn't move like a human's, and he was so fast. He spun around, pistol flashing out, and had shot one of the monsters through the eyes before the others had a chance to react. The other monsters snarled and fire their own weapons, but the bullets and energy bolts seemed to flash harmless against him, arcing out in blue flashes as they neared his body.

Then he leapt forwards, further than she'd thought possible, and was suddenly in the middle of them. One arm flashed forward, and a monster fell, clutching feebly at its throat. A booted foot struck out precisely, and a second monster curled forwards, its legs breaking useless beneath it. Saren's pistol pointed down and fired twice.

One of the monsters snarled and lunged forward, but Saren simply stepped to the side, sticking out a foot to let the monster trip to the ground. The other monsters started firing wildly, but once again the bullets simply flashed harmlessly away, a blue glow shining over Saren like a shield. The monsters had no such protection, it seemed - another shot from Saren's pistol left one of them reeling backwards, dark green blood pouring over the muddy fields.

She could only watch in fascination. Only seconds had passed, and yet-

 _-oh no_ , she thought, suddenly spotting movement on the edge of her vision. _Please_.

One of the fallen monsters had only been stunned, and now - with Saren facing the other way - it was climbing to its feet, weapon raised. Saren was still fighting two of them, and his back was turned to the third. She couldn't tell if he'd heard anything. _He's going to die_ , she thought bleakly. _They're going to kill him like everybody else_. She felt sick.

She screamed, wordlessly, and _pushed_ at … she didn't have the words to describe what. Her head hurt worse than she could remember. But tens of meters away, the monster stumbled, its shot firing wildly over her defender's shoulders. Saren spun around at the noise, fired his own weapon once, and the monster fell to the earth. The remaining monsters broke off and fled back the way they had come.

Her vision wavered, and she would have fallen if Saren had not suddenly been at her side to catch her.

"How did I do that?" she asked him, hearing her words slur together. "I've never…"

She wanted to be sick.

"How…" she mumbled, "How can we stop them all?" It struck her then that, if this was happening here, it could be happening all over the planet; all over the colonies. Saren might have saved her, but who would save the others?

"Don't worry, child," said Saren, "You are not alone."

She tried to answer but it was just too much effort to stay awake.

An hour later there were three turian dreadnoughts in orbit. Six hours later there were no living batarians left within a light year of the planet.

Nine months later the colony of Mindoir voted unanimously to accept the Hierarchy's offer of clientage. And eight years after that vote, she was one of the first humans to sign up to the Hierarchy's auxiliary program.

* * *

| Four Years Ago | 2176 CE, old Earth style | Torfan |

Ripper died a few minutes after they made it into the tunnels. By then, they all knew things had gone badly wrong.

 _This was supposed to be a simple operation,_ Marius thought. A few months earlier, batarian proxies - mostly slavers and privateers operating in the Terminus systems - had launched a sudden assault on the human colony worlds under the protection of the Hierarchy. The fighting had been fierce and bloody, but after some time the invading forces had been pushed back. Now the war had moved back into batarian space.

High command had identified key enemy outposts on this moon. Some of the very people who had organised the original blitz attack were understood to be hiding out here. The Hierarchy had ordered Commander Vyrnnus's cabal to take out one of these outposts. The kabalim had spent days studying blueprints and reports, working out a plan to enter the underground tunnel system that long-range scanners had picked up.

 _Bringing us down into an ambush probably wasn't part of that plan_ , thought Marius.

They'd underestimated the batarians. That was the simple truth. It was a mistake that was probably going to get them all killed.

Vyrnnus and most of the senior members of the cabal were already dying or dead, and only a fraction of the survivors had managed to fight their way to the tunnel entrance where they'd been ordered to assemble.

Ripper had been the highest ranking member of the cabal to make it this far. After him,by Marius's reckoning, the next highest ranked was Shepard, one of the human auxiliaries. Glancing around the tunnel, it seemed that everyone else had reached the same conclusion.

Marius hadn't served under a human before, but there was a reason that high command had already promoted her to this rank. He'd seen her fight with his own eyes, ripping apart the enemy's defences with her biotic powers with seeming ease. She could handle a pistol as well as a turian, too. And as for leadership ... if his superiors thought she could do the job, then it wasn't his place to question that.

 _Then again_ , he thought grimly, _Sometimes high command makes mistakes._

Shepard pulled herself up onto a ledge to address the other survivors. Marius found himself towards the back of the crowd, looking up towards her. He kept his face schooled, not wanting any misgivings to show.

"I'll keep it short." she said. "The batarians have killed a lot of our friends today. Good people, people we'll miss. My guess is that they think it's just a matter of time before we give up, go back to the Citadel and ask the Council to step in. Before we stop fighting and let the diplomats argue over how the Overseer and his pirate friends should best be rewarded for attacking our worlds and terrorising our civilians. For killing our friends."

She shook her head.

"Hell, if we were asari or salarians, maybe they'd be right. But the Hierarchy doesn't respond to aggression with diplomacy and fancy words. We don't ask our enemies what we can do to make them leave us alone. When people try to start wars against us, we end them. And when the primarchs decide that dropping rocks on our enemies from orbit is too merciful, they call on us.

"Like I said, we lost a lot of good people today. But I came here with a job to do, and I plan to finish it. If anyone or anything on this rock wants to stop me, they're welcome to try."

Without waiting for a response, Shepard hopped back down and started barking out individual orders.

"Marius, get to work on these lift controls. If we override the security locks, intel says this shaft leads straight into the batarian command bunker."

Marius nodded and raced over to the controls. Batarian security systems were nothing special; a little bit of prodding and tinkering would work to break through most of what the Hegemony could produce. The pirates might have got hold of something better, from somewhere - the salarians, maybe - but he was confident he could deal with that too, if he had to.

"Kyle, take your pick of the rest of the squad and set up a defensive perimeter. For now, we have the element of surprise, but that won't last. When the batarians realise what's hitting them, they'll scramble everyone they have up on the surface to get back here. We need you to keep this chamber clear so we have an exit path."

Kyle - another human - was somebody Marius knew better than Shepard. They'd served together in the Terminus systems before, fighting vorcha and krogan mercenaries. Kyle was one of the few human biotics whose powers had manifested before First Contact. His mother had lived downwind of a eezo mining complex, which had been the site of huge fires six months before he was born.

Kyle's parents hadn't been sure what to do with him after his powers began to manifest. Even with all the advances gleaned from the Prothean ruins, human science had been wholly unprepared for biotics. The arrival of Hierarchy forces - and their establishment of biotic training camps across the colony worlds - had been an unexpected but welcome resolution to their dilemma.

Marius's own biotics had first manifested while he was in the engineering corps - he'd been reassigned to a Cabal soon afterwards. But he still thought of himself as an engineer more than anything else. His biotic powers, he knew, were nothing special. Machines, tech, computer systems … that was where he could be of the most use.

 _Speaking of which…_ he thought, grimly. This system was proving to be more of a challenge than he'd expected. _Vyrnnus wasn't the only one who'd underestimated the batarians_ , he admitted to himself. With any luck, his mistake wouldn't prove as costly as the commander's had.

Breaking into security systems like this required a combination of brute force and technical skill. On Marius's left-hand side, he'd cracked open the case of one machine; tearing and rerouting wires to disable some of the hardware challenge protocols. To his right, the screen of another machine flashed messages at him urgently. He'd been able to give himself limited root access, and was trying to convince the system to shut down and restart.

But he wasn't the only presence active on the system - there was some sort of simple VI guard-dog routine in there too. And the VI seemed to sense he didn't belong. The VI threw up barriers and obstructions to stop him making progress, but thankfully it didn't seem to be able to disconnect him. The talons of his right-hand flexed and tapped against the machine's screen desperately as he tried to … _there!_

The screen faded to black. Marius allowed himself a brief moment of panic, then - _did the VI manage to disconnect me after all?_ \- before the right-hand machine powered back to life. At his command, the security systems deactivated, the locks on the lift clicked open, and the doors slowly slid apart.

Marius stepped back and took a deep breath. He'd been so focused on his task that he hadn't noticed Shepard coming up behind him. From the look on her face, he guessed she had some idea of the problems he'd had. Briefly, he wondered how he could explain how tricky the security had proven to be. He didn't know if the human had any tech background, but-

"Good work, Marius," she said simply.

He tilted his head towards her slightly in acknowledgement. _Sometimes high command don't make mistakes_ , he thought.

Kyle and the biotics he'd chosen stepped away, Marius hoped they'd be all right, but he knew that their odds of holding this position against the bulk of the privateer forces for any length of time were slim.

 _We'll have to be quick then_ , he told himself.

The remaining members of the Cabal readied their weapons as the lift dropped down into the darkness.

* * *

| Seven Years Ago | 2173 CE, old Earth style | Horizon |

Doctor Blake had only one more patient to see that evening. But she was one of the troubling ones.

"Now…" she said brightly. "Your file says you don't like people using your given name, but it doesn't say what you do like. Should I call you Miss Shepard, or …?"

"Just Shepard's fine," the girl sitting opposite her muttered awkwardly. And she was a girl, thought Blake, whatever the Hierarchy insisted. Nineteen year old children shouldn't be old enough to be shell-shocked combat veterans. This was the twenty-second century, not the twentieth. _The future was supposed to be better than this_ , she thought sadly.

"Shepard, thank you." Doctor Blake smiled, making sure to keep eye contact. "You can call me Doctor Blake, or Helena if that's easier for you."

Shepard didn't seem to think that merited a response. She just sat in her chair, fidgeting uncomfortably.

"Now, Shepard," Helena Blake said, her voice turning serious. "Do you know why we're talking like this today?"

Shepard puffed up her cheeks and sighed, her jaws working silently for a moment or two. Helena waited patiently, not sure why she found the gestures so unsettling.

"The Alliance passed a law mandating regular counselling and medical check-ups for all biotically-enhanced minors brought up in Hierarchy training camps," Shepard recited woodenly. "Sessions are required every year, or as soon as possible following any reports of potentially serious injury or trauma." Helena wasn't surprised to see that she'd memorised the usual spiel by now.

"How long have you been serving as an auxiliary, Shepard?" she asked, trying to keep her tone as light as possible. She already knew the answer. _It isn't right that they do this to a child,_ she thought privately. _Especially after what happened to her family._

"Four years, now", Shepard said. For the first time since their session started, Helena could detect some clear emotion - pride - in her patient's voice. She angled her head to one side, a gesture Helena realised she'd last seen used in such a way by the local garrison commander. A turian gesture, then. She wondered if Shepard was conscious of the fact she was doing that.

"Can you tell me about your last mission, Shepard?" asked Helena, hopefully.

Shepard frowned, shook her head. "We're not supposed to talk about operational matters," she said slowly. "Security. I know you get the reports, but I don't know what..."

"Tell me about Private Taylor, then" Helena said coaxingly.

"Jacob?" said Shepard. "He's - I mean, he was…"

She frowned, and sighed.

"He died for the cause, I guess? That's meant to be a good way to …" Shepard trailed off and stared at her feet. "He was a nice kid. I couldn't save him," she muttered.

"I'm sorry, Shepard," Helena said carefully. "I'm not sure the microphone caught that. Could yo-"

Shepard looked up again, her face flushed and angry.

"I couldn't save him!" she said heatedly. "It was my job, and I let him - I let the unit down."

"Nobody thinks you let anybody down," said Helena, soothingly. "In fact, in your file it says your commander recommended you for a very prestigious award. Everyone I've spoken to, everything I've read … people seem very impressed."

… _that you killed a thresher maw_ , she didn't finish. _That's the elephant in the room, isn't it? Nineteen year old children aren't supposed to fight monsters like that. They're certainly not supposed to kill them._ Shepard's file had also been very clear that Shepard didn't like talking about the aliens she'd fought. Or explaining why she'd never painted her face the way the other colony children had started to do.

"But it wasn't enough," the girl said, stubbornly. "I need to do better. I have to be better."

Dr Blake frowned slightly. "Did somebody in the Hierarchy tell you that?" she asked. "Because-"

Shepard was already shaking her head.

"Nobody tells me that," she said flatly. "You- they all pretend…" she trailed off.

Helena scribbled something on her datapad, thoughtfully. "Let's go back to Jacob," she suggested. "Did you talk to him much?"

Shepard shrugged, defensively. "We talked a bit, I guess."

She paused for long enough that Helena wondered if she was going to speak, but then she continued. Her voice was quiet now, more thoughtful.

"His mother brought him up, I think," she said slowly. "At least, he never talked about his father. Maybe something happened to him. I think he was thirteen or fourteen when his biotics started manifesting."

Something about the matter of fact way she said that troubled Helena more than she'd let show. The sudden emergence of biotic powers among human children - at just around the time they made first contact with alien life - was still something most humans struggled to accept. But to Shepard, of course, it was just lived reality.

"Thirteen's quite young, isn't it?" Helena asked carefully.

"I guess," the girl was back on the defensive now, her voice guarded. "During puberty's pretty normal. Earlier, sometimes, if there's the right sort of mental or emotional trigger."

Helena sighed to herself. Shepard was back to reciting things she'd memorised. They didn't seem to be making any progress. Perhaps it was time for a different approach.

"What do you think of thresher maws, Shepard?" she asked.

"They're very big," Shepard said, coldly. "Hard to kill." She paused for a few seconds, contemplating. "They look really ugly, too. Honestly, they're pretty disgusting."

"Do you spend a lot of time fighting thresher maws?" Helena asked carefully.

"No." Shepard seemed to want to leave it at that, but as the doctor stayed quiet the teenager clearly felt compelled to fill the silence.

"Most of the time we fight batarians," she said quietly. "Pirates. Slavers"

"And what do you think o-" Helena started to ask,

"Batarians are also disgusting," Shepard said, heavily, "You know I think they're disgusting, and you know why I think that. And now I think you're wasting my time."

Shepard stood up, shaking her head, and stalked towards the exit. But just before she got to the door, she paused, turning around again to face the doctor. She grinned - _No_ , Helena realised, _She bared her teeth. Like a turian_ \- and her grey eyes were cold. "They're not hard to kill though." she added, as she walked out of the office.

She should probably have chased after her, Helena knew, but the girl was right. She would just have been wasting both their time. Instead, she sat in her office writing up her reports. They were mostly done anyway - this interview wouldn't have added much even if it had gone on as long as scheduled.

The official report took the longest, as usual. She had to collate medical reports, transcribe the interview, paste in any number of charts and tables and figures. She had to prepare a plan for follow-up treatment, as if there was any chance of Shepard agreeing to come back to see her before the mandatory year was up

This was all largely pointless, in Helena's private opinion, but there were bills to be paid and this was a good a way of earning money as any other.

As soon as she was finished with the official report, Helena reached into the bottom of her desk drawer and pulled out a cheap unregistered omni-tool she'd picked up from a stall selling knockoffs and counterfeits out in the slums earlier in the week. The market trader hadn't asked her why a professionally-dressed young woman would be so keen on being able to send untracked messages, but she'd sensed his curiosity all the same. So she'd casually let slip that she was involved in something complicated with a married colleague, one who - not to put too fine a point on it - was a lot bluer and balder than the sort of girl Helena's parents would have wanted her to date.

Helena was rather proud of herself for not giving away any hint of just how nauseous that suggestion had made her feel. It had assuaged the trader's curiosity, and that was all that mattered.

Now, alone in the office, she frowned thoughtfully while she typed out her message. As soon as it was safely sent off - to an extranet address she'd memorised earlier in the week and would never contact again - she pulled the power source from out of the omni-tool and cracked it deliberately into pieces. The now lifeless tool would be disposed of in a public trash incinerator on her way home, and she'd pick up another one from the grey market in a few weeks time.

She'd been practising this routine for months now. Unnecessary, probably, but one could never be too careful.

A few minutes later, and the office was deserted. Dr Blake's official report sat waiting on her office computer, where tomorrow she'd reread it, revise it, and finally send it off to the Subcommittee for Transhuman Studies. And her other report flew out invisibly among the communication buoys of the relay network, to be seen by a very different group.

_||||||| SUBJECT 0116-7_

_While 0116-7's commendable hatred for batarians seems undiminished, her adoption of the turian's social and political attitudes is highly worrying. Her biotic abilities are well within the top 5% of all candidates, but it is difficult to assess her mental state. She is unlikely to respond well to anything she views as disloyalty to her own unit or to Hierarchy high command, in whom she has clearly invested significant emotional energy following the deaths of her family and the events of her subsequent upbringing. Recruitment efforts are therefore highly contraindicated at this stage. Suggest continued long-term monitoring._

* * *

| Four Years Ago | 2176 CE, old Earth style | Torfan |

Gharvak hadn't seen the shot that hit him. One of the turians must have got lucky - firing right at the moment his shield generator failed, just before he'd ducked into cover as he'd been trained to. Well, turians had never been short of luck.

The turians had been lucky sixteen years ago; stumbling across the human colony worlds in the Attican Traverse mere weeks before the Hegemony. Hegemony scouting parties already rounding up new slaves had been left stranded when the warships of the Hierarchy emerged without warning through the Shadow Sea relay gates. Cut off from reinforcements and supplies, the scouts had had no chance, and the human worlds had soon been swallowed up into the turians' growing empire.

The turians had got lucky again when it turned out that the humans - the slow-witted, soft-skinned, ugly humans - had begun to develop biotic powers, something which both the Hierarchy and the Hegemony were sorely in need of.

Of course, the Council had turned a deaf ear to the batarians' pleas for diplomatic resolution of the disputed territories. It was no surprise at all that the asari and salarians had sided with the turians at the expense of the Hegemony. Ever since the end of the Krogan Rebellions the three races had been inseparable allies - a relationship which had benefited the turians countless times through the centuries.

Now they had been lucky once more.

The shot had smashed open his visor, blinding him in both his left eyes, and knocked him clean off his feet. He'd lain on the floor, stunned, while the turian troops and their human lackeys pushed through the barricades his squad had set up hours earlier. All aliens were ugly, Gharvak reflected, but these humans were hideous. Even with their biotics they seemed barely worth the trouble of training as slaves.

This time should have been different. The Hegemony had been cultivating allies in the Terminus systems for years, biding its time, waiting for the right moment to strike back. And now the turians were - should have been - distracted by the separatist crisis on Taetrus, by the recent failed assassination attempt on the humans' President, by rumours of economic uncertainty on Irune. A short, coordinated military strike against the turians' most far-flung outposts should have made the Hierarchy's leadership aware of the weakness of their position. It should have brought the turians back to the negotiating table, prepared to make a more realistic settlement in the disputed systems.

The strikes hadn't been as decisive as the Overseer had wished - their allies just a little slower, a little less well equipped than they had counted on - and the turians response suggest that the Overseer's advisers had badly misjudged the new Primarch on Palaven. Heads had already rolled for that mistake.

Lost in his thoughts, Gharvak realised he'd been drifting out of consciousness only when he heard voices in the corridor behind him. Suddenly he was fully awake again. A small party was approaching his position, marching from the central control room. Reinforcements, or … but no, his spirits fell again. He could hear turian and human voices, not batarians. _We've lost_ , he thought, numbly. The idea of Torfan falling had seemed unthinkable even this morning. The thought of it filled him with unexpected despair.

Laying down your life for victory in combat - that was something of which the gods approved. But compounding the shame of defeat by falling to the enemy on the battlefield? That was something that the gods would not forgive. _This is no way for a soldier to die_ , he thought.

There were only three of them, he realised. Two turians and a human. They all ignored him - lying against the wall in a pool of blood, no doubt they assumed he was dead or unconscious. _Their mistake_ , he thought. And his weapon was still in arms' reach. Maybe the gods had decided he was due a little luck.

The turians were the real threat, he decided. He'd kill them first, then deal with the human. She'd already wandered ahead - with luck she'd have no warning until he was ready for her. He waited until the two turians were crouched down, examining a security terminal, then in one smooth motion grabbed the gun by his side and fired twice. The first shot went wide, but the second struck true, hitting one of the enemy cleanly in the skull.

He heard the human cry out - _she must have been closer than I realised_ , he thought - even as he was firing again, wild shots now, no need for stealth. The second turian went down too, and a stray shot must have hit the terminal he'd been investigating, sparking a chain reaction which had the whole bank of terminals in flames. _No chance of the turians surviving that_ , he thought grimly, turning to find the human.

That's where it all went wrong.

Somehow she was already back inside the barricades, wreathed in blue energy and shouting something Gharvak couldn't hear. He tried firing again, but his weapon wouldn't respond - it was painfully hot to the touch, so Gharvak simply threw it at the human. Her hands twitched - the tell-tale sign of a biotic recalling mnemonics - and the weapon spun away around her, clattering into the floor somewhere in the shadows beyond.

Gharvak tried to grab for another weapon, but the shot he'd taken earlier had left him too slow, too weak. The human's pistol barked once, and he felt a sudden sharp pain in his chest. She gestured with her hands again and Gharvak felt himself being torn off his feet and hurled backwards.

He crashed heavily against the tunnel wall, a sharp pain in his lower back. He tried to reach for his weapons one last time, but his fingers twitched helplessly and his arm hung useless at his side.

The human walked up towards him, pistol drawn. He couldn't read whatever emotions passed across her face. But he knew he was dead, either way. _Still, better a quick death than bleeding out in a tunnel_.

The human pointed the pistol at him, then paused, as if considering. He noticed she'd taken a wound of her own, a thin line of bizarrely red blood dripping down over her one right eye. It was like looking at a creature out of a nightmare, or a demon.

"Do you believe in hell, human?" Gharvak asked, slowly. "I know the turians don't. Or at least, they say they don't."

The human just looked at him. _Discussing theology with an animal_ , he thought, distantly. _Why not?_ He wasn't even sure she could understand him.

"I believe in hell," he continued. "I know that the just and the merciful are rewarded by the masters of creation, while the weak and the cowardly are punished for eternity. I know what fate awaits me in the world after this."

Gharvak coughed, weakly, spitting green blood onto the cavern floor. He struggled up to his knees, his right arm still twisted unnaturally. He wasn't going to die on his back like an insect.

"One day, human," he continued, "One day you too will be judged. One day your eyes will look upon the last world your masters will ever send you to conquer. The world where your body will fall, unmourned, as whatever passes for a human soul seeps from your eyes like poison. On that day, perhaps we'll meet again."

His two working eyes closed, for the last time. He felt himself tremble slightly as the as the alien rested her pistol against his temple. He took two rapid breaths, then another.

"Well, get on w-"

A sound like thunder echoed in the subterranean chamber.


	2. Spectres 1

Shepard was alone in the cargo hold when the shuttle arrived. She'd lined up a row of targets against one wall, and now - standing sixty feet away on the other side of the hold - she knocked them down again, one by one. Blue light flickered in the cargo hold as her fingers flexed through familiar mnemonic patterns. When all the targets were down, she walked back over, picked them back up, and started again.

They'd been far out in the Traverse when they'd picked up the message, sent straight from the Citadel only a few hours earlier. Encrypted tight-beam communication, highest priority, direct to the Captain's terminal. Corinthus had ordered the ship to change course as soon as he'd read it. At the start of her shift, Shepard had been preparing to lead a raid on a company of smugglers with ties to the Terminus Systems. Instead she stood alone in the cargo hold, she knocked down targets, she picked them back up, and started again.

All Shepard had been told at first was that the _Resolute_ would be intercepting an elcor ship that had left the Citadel days earlier. The _Wisdom of the Ancients_ was a merchant vessel, heading back to Dekuuna. It was only shortly before they reached her that Captain Corinthus explained they'd be picking up a Council agent who'd hitched a ride on that ship.

Alone in the cargo hold, Shepard frowned at the memory, and the next target fell back a little further than the others.

It was that Council agent's shuttle that had just arrived. Even now, the agent was heading to Corinthus's quarters to speak to him in person. No doubt he would have more orders as well.

Shepard had a feeling the Captain wasn't happy about his orders, but he was a good turian. Obeying orders was what he did, and he wouldn't complain - not to his superiors, and not to his subordinates - if he thought those orders were wrong. Shepard wasn't any sort of turian, but she was trying to be good. If the Hierarchy thought playing escort for a Council bigwig was more important than cracking down on a smuggling ring, then who was she to disagree? Who was she, if she couldn't follow orders?

A finger twitched out of turn and one of the targets fell to the floor in pieces. She wouldn't be picking that one up again.

 _I am my thoughts_ , she recited to herself. _When I think clearly, I act on the world. When my thoughts are unclear, the world acts on me_. It had been one of her first instructor's favourite mantras. The same instructor had also told her repeatedly that talent without practice was talent wasted. And so, when she wanted to focus her thoughts and improve her understanding of the world, she practised.

Her biotic amp was a warm presence on the back of her skull. As her fingers twitched and neurons fired, the amp picked up the signals in her brain and strengthened them, until the invisible strands of dark energy that spanned space began to vibrate in sympathy. And as the dark energy swirled around her, blue sparks flew through the air and targets fell, one by one. She walked across the cargo hold again, picked up the remaining targets, lined them up against the wall, and started again.

A human scientist on Horizon had tried to explain to her that that wasn't how biotics actually worked, once. He'd used phrases like 'quantum tunnelling', 'primordial isocurvature' and 'boson exchange symmetry'. She'd barely pretended to pay attention. He hadn't been a biotic himself, he didn't understand. He couldn't. This wasn't mathematics or physics, this was something real. It was something she could do well.

(She walked over to the opposite wall. She picked up targets, lined them up in place. She started again.)

Relationships between the turians and the other Council races had grown tense in the twenty-odd years since the remnants of humanity had become a protectorate member of the Hierarchy. She'd even heard mutterings about reviewing the Treaty of Farixen, of potentially restarting a military arms race that had ended when her people had still been sceptical of heavier-than-air flight. Perhaps, she reasoned, the Primarchs felt that doing the Council a few favours, rebuilding bridges with the asari and the salarians, was worth the price of a few more shiploads of red sand crossing the borders into Hierarchy space. And if she thought about it that way for a while, perhaps she'd agree that they were right.

That wasn't how a turian would have thought. A good turian didn't need to reason themselves into following orders. But it was the best she could do.

She flexed her fingers. She knocked down targets. She picked them back up … and she realised that she'd been doing this for the best part of an hour. Her head ached and her stomach growled angrily. Even the thought of the inevitably dreary levo-rations wasn't enough to quell her appetite.

 _Probably time to call it a day_ , she thought to herself. She looked back at the targets, lined up against the cargo wall. _But then again..._

A message flashed up on her omni-tool - the Captain wanted to speak to her. The targets forgotten, Shepard pulled on her uniform jacket, combed her fingers through her hair, and headed to the elevator.

* * *

"What can you tell me about Eden Prime?"

Shepard blinked, slowly. The question had come from a young-looking turian she'd never seen on the ship before, just seconds after she walked into the Captain's offices. She looked past him, towards the Captain himself, and raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Commander Shepard," the Captain said in greeting from behind his desk. "This is-"

"Vakarian," the younger turian interrupted. "Garrus Vakarian." She'd seen a number of impulsive young turians in her time as an auxiliary, but she'd not seen many look apologetic before. Perhaps it was just her imagination.

"He's a Spectre," the Captain explained.

A Spectre - one of the Council's elite agents. _I guess I'm supposed to be impressed_ , she thought. Most people in Citadel space would go their whole lives without seeing a Spectre in person, rather than on a vid. Most people, but not her.

Besides, Spectres were trouble. She didn't like the thought of having him on board for any longer than necessary.

"Welcome aboard, sir" she said, saluting sharply. She gave the Spectre a second look as she did so, gathering her thoughts.

He was slightly above average height for a male turian, which meant that he towered over her by at least a foot. The visor he wore over one eye suggested he was a marksman. _Or at least he wants people to think he's one_ , she thought. She thought she recognised his dark green armour, too - Armax, maybe. Nothing she'd ever been able to afford. _No surprise that the Council kits their agents out with the best_ , she thought. He looked awfully young for a Spectre, though. The splash of blue on his face made it clear he came from Palaven; she wasn't quite sure how to interpret the rest of it. Something about mourning the passing of an elder relative, perhaps.

"Eden Prime is …" she paused. _A relic_ , she didn't say. _An embarrassment._

"You probably know that Eden Prime is one of our oldest colonies," she said instead. "Founded before I was born. It's still one of the most populated worlds in human space."

"The people who live on Eden Prime are -" _idiots_ , she thought, "- traditionalists. They're mostly farmers, agricultural workers. They don't really mix that much with humans on other worlds.

"After First Contact, Eden Prime voted to join the Hierarchy but … it was close." It had in fact been very close. Only an eleventh hour intervention by General Williams, the hero of the Shadow Sea himself, travelling to tour Eden Prime just days before polls closed, had been sufficient to swing it. Or so the experts said, anyway. The General had gone on to become President of the Systems Alliance, only retiring last year. _And Eden Prime had gone back to fearing the galaxy and hating its children_ , she thought bitterly.

She paused, gathering her thoughts. "Sir, what precisely was it that you wanted to know?"

"Just trying to get a sense of the place," answered Vakarian. "We're heading there now."

"Sir," she said, as neutrally as she could. A Spectre could order any ship in Council space to travel wherever they wanted.

"Vakarian can fill you in on the details of his mission," said Corinthus. He nodded to Vakarian, as he stood up from his desk. "Expect to arrive at Eden Prime in three hours. I'll meet you at the shuttle bay when you've put a landing team together."

He walked out of the office, leaving her alone with the Spectre.

"What can you tell me about the ship?" he asked, curiously. "I've heard this is an experimental craft, but I didn't see anything unusual when my shuttle approached."

She nodded. She'd had questions like this from severa visiting turian officers in the past. The words came easier with repetition.

"The _Resolute_ is an experiment, sir, but mostly in terms of personnel. We've got a roughly fifty-fifty split of humans and turians on the crew. The human crew are a mix of pilots, marines, tech specialists and biotics. Like me." She'd found it best to get that out of the way as soon as possible. Though probably a Spectre wouldn't have any problem with biotics. _Better safe than sorry_ , she thought.

"The rest of the crew don't have any objections to serving with biotics?" he asked, curiously.

This was another common question. Traditionally, biotics in the Hierarchy military didn't work side by side with non-biotic units, but in specialist units: Cabals. She'd been a member of one Cabal or another herself between leaving the training camps and before her assignment to this ship.

"The turian crew were all given the option on serving elsewhere if humans or biotics bothered them," she answered. "They've mostly served on other ships before, and they've encountered biotics of other species, mainly asari. None of them have a problem with biotics."

"What about the human crew?" he wondered.

"Human attitudes to biotics are complicated," she admitted. "You probably know there's no real record of biotic abilities among humans before we came into space. Some people, well …"

She trailed off. Probably not very diplomatic to remind the young Spectre that a large section of human society thought biotics were some sort of turian plot to turn her species into obedient space mutants.

"Humans who don't approve of biotics aren't likely to volunteer to be auxiliaries, sir." she said, after a slightly too long pause. _And if we're going to Eden Prime you'll meet a few of them soon enough_.

He looked thoughtful..

"You know," he said, "There are rumours that the Hierarchy plans to let the Systems Alliance take over planetary defence of the colony worlds. This is a step towards that, isn't it?"

"Could be, sir." she said, cautiously. "I try to leave that sort of thing to the politicians." _And I definitely try not to discuss politics with strange turians I've only just met_ , she pointedly didn't add.

"Anyway," he said, changing the subject. "Eden Prime. You didn't mention anything about the Prothean ruins."

"Protheans, sir?" she asked, confused. Fifty thousand years ago, the Prothean civilisation had filled the galaxy. Though long since vanished, the ruins they'd left behind - the mass relay gates, the space station known as the Citadel, artefacts on Mars and on Menae and on Bira and dozens of other worlds - had been the seeds from which all the galaxy's current space-faring species had grown. But she'd never heard of any Prothean ruins on Eden Prime.

Vakarian seemed to sense her confusion.

"An archaeological team has been working on Eden Prime for some months," he began to explain. "Mostly volus and turian, but also some salarians, a couple of asari. A few days ago the Council lost all contact with them. I've been asked to investigate."

That something might have happened to an archeological team wasn't too surprising. Meddling with the ruins of ancient civilisations could be a dangerous game. The salarians and asari had learned that lesson two thousand years ago, when they'd incautiously opened up a relay directly to worlds controlled by the insectoid armies of the rachni, starting one of the darkest and bloodiest chapters of Council history. But all species had similar cautionary tales, even if not on the same scale. The galaxy was not a safe place, and the relics of dead species were not to be trusted. _Some species are dead for a good reason_.

"What's the Council's interest in all this?" she asked, puzzled.

"The dig team was sponsored by Kumun Shol," he said. Clearly he expected the name to mean something, but it didn't.

"He's the volus who claims a god told him to begin preparing the galaxy for the arrival of a race of machine -" he began, only to fall silent as she looked back at him blankly.

Shepard had never heard anything about a Kumun Shol before, though she supposed the volus were allowed to have lunatics and troublemakers as much as the next species. _Maybe we should have stuck to human politics_ , she thought wryly. Reluctant as she was to discuss President Petrovsky's policies, at least they'd both heard of the man.

"Kumun Shol is the largest single shareholder in a trading company worth over ten billion credits," the Spectre tried again.

"Ah." she said slowly. _Yes, that would do_.

"Now," he continued, "From what I've heard of Eden Prime, I figured it would be sensible to bring a human or two along with me. Humans familiar with the planet, if possible, who can take care of themselves if things get messy. Anybody on your crew meet that description?"

She nodded, slowly, trying to hide her unease. "Yes, sir," she said.

"Oh, and …" Now he looked slightly uncomfortable himself. "By the way, Commander, you don't need to keep calling me 'sir'. Vakarian is fine."

"Well then, Vakarian", she said, "Let's go for a walk."

* * *

"Oh, come on Jenkins." Samantha Traynor's voice could be heard clearly from the other side of the mess hall. "I know you were here four hours ago, people saw you. We know Nicollier has to eat extra levo-rations because she's a biotic. But what's your excuse? You can't possibly …"

If Jenkins replied, Shepard couldn't hear it. She nodded to Vakarian as they both walked up towards a table in the mess hall where four humans were sitting together. Like most of the human crew they'd chosen to keep their hair cropped short, the better to cope with the high temperatures of a ship designed for to optimise turian comfort. This meant that Shepard's own shoulder-length hair made her stand out almost as much as it had on Palaven. Which was part of the point of growing it, of course.

"... oh, you do!" she heard Samantha laugh. "You actually like them!"

As usual, Traynor was doing most of the talking. According to her records, Sam Traynor had been assigned the role of Communications Specialist on the basis of her outstanding scores in electronics and data analysis, as well as her less than stellar scores in physical training. Privately though, Shepard sometimes suspected that whoever suggested her for the role had simply had a sense of irony.

Right now the target of Traynor's communication skills was Richard Jenkins, originally of Eden Prime. Eden Prime being a traditionalist world, neither he nor Jennifer Nicollier, the biotic sitting next to him, had any colonial face markings. _Not that Nicollier would go out of her way to advertise her links to Eden Prime anyway_ , she thought. Rounding up the group was Talitha Komarov, still wearing the ornate triangular patterns that marked her as a child of Mindoir.

As usual, Komarov was slightly more on edge than the others and the first to notice her commanding officer arrive. She snapped out a salute, and the other three were quick to join her.

"At ease," Shepard said, waving them to sit down again. She could tell that the presence of Vakarian at her side confused them slightly, but none of them wanted to be the first to ask.

"This is Vakarian." she said simply. "He's a Spectre."

"A Spectre!" exclaimed Jenkins. He turned to the young woman sitting next to him. Once again Shepard marvelled at the fact that the two Eden Prime natives seemed to have so little in common. Nicollier was quiet and reserved where Jenkins was loud and excitable, short and slim where he was tall and muscled. She was one of the most powerful biotics Shepard had ever met, the only one on the ship she thought it was worth her time sparring with. And she was also, Shepard was reasonably sure, the actual reason Jenkins kept finding excuses to make multiple trips to the mess hall every day.

Nicollier looked at Vakarian with a serious, thoughtful expression as Jenkins treated her to a slightly lurid overview of the history and purpose of the Council's Special Tactics and Reconnaissance branch.

"Spectres don't answer to anyone!" he announced firmly. "They can do whatever they want, kill anyone who gets in their way…"

"We also get a five percent discount at selected retailers across the galaxy" added Vakarian, drily.

"You watch too many spy vids, Jenkins," sighed Traynor.

Jenkins paused in his exposition, considering. "Wait," he said hopefully. "Commander, are you being considered for the Spectres?"

Shepard blinked. "I'm pretty sure I'll be an old woman before the Council starts looking for human Spectres," she said gently. "You won't be getting rid of me that easily."

She knew Jenkins meant well, but the idea was absurd. Asari, turians and salarians became Spectres. Members of species that the Council wanted to keep close. Not species with a total population in the millions, no organised military of their own and not even a home world anybody could find on a map.

"Well," said Jenkins seriously, turning to address Vakarian. "You should consider the Commander. She's a biotic, a good one, and she's a war hero too. Ask anyone. And did she tell you about the time she took down a thresher maw, on foot? "

 _Oh, Spirits,_ thought Shepard, _Now this is embarrassing_. It was especially mortifying to see the normally sensible Nicollier nodding along. She hoped Traynor and Komarov weren't doing the same thing.

"I've read the Commander's service files," said Vakarian simply.

 _You have?_ thought Shepard, puzzled. _When did you find the time to do that?_ She hadn't let him out of her sight since they'd met in the Captain's offices. She filed that away as a mystery for another day.

"Vakarian's just here looking for somebody to show him around Eden Prime," she insisted firmly. "Jenkins, since you're from Eden Prime yourself I thought that you'd be the right man for the job."

As she'd expected, Jenkins' face practically lit up at the suggestion.

"Now," she said, turning to the others. "I-" Her stomach, rumbling loudly, chose that moment to remind her that the energy she'd expended in the cargo hold earlier would have to be paid back somehow.

"Um." Komarov cleared her throat nervously. "With all due respect, ma'am, have you eaten today?"

 _Oh_ , she thought. She hadn't, of course - she'd been meaning before the Captain's message, but she'd been distracted.

"You told us to remind you if you forgot." the shuttle pilot said reprovingly. "And you did forget, didn't you?"

"I did indeed," said Shepard, slightly abashed. In truth, she'd mostly asked Komarov to remind her in an attempt to get the shuttle pilot to relax a bit more around her. Shepard knew what some people on Mindoir thought about her, about her actions on Torfan four years ago. Knowing where she was from, she'd not been surprised that Komarov had been so awkward when they first met.

But it was true that she'd forgotten, and she did need to eat something soon. She was toying with the idea of just asking the Spectre to wait with her in the mess hall while she ate when, surprisingly, Private Jenkins came to her rescue.

"I volunteer to show Vakarian around the ship, ma'am!" he said, clearly trying his best his to stifle his excitement at getting to talk to a real, flesh and blood Spectre.

"I … well," she turned to Vakarian. "If you don't mind?"

He shook his head slowly. "Honestly, I could do with a bit of sniper practice," he said. "Not much chance of doing that on an eclor ship, but I'd hoped that here…"

"Jennifer and I can show him to the shooting range," said Jenkins, eagerly. _Ah, so it's 'Jennifer' now, I see,_ she noted to herself.

"Well, then." Shepard said. "We'll be making planetfall in two and half hours. Vakarain, I'll come and find you once the shuttle's ready."

Jenkins saluted and practically bolted out of his chair. He and Vakarian headed towards the shooting range, Jenkins breathlessly asking questions about his rifle - a Mantis, apparently - his training regime, and whether he'd ever been to see the Council at the top of the Citadel Tower. Nicollier hung back for a moment, looking towards Shepard with a worried look on her face.

Komarov turned to say something to Traynor, who laughed softly and whispered something back to her in turn. Shepard excused herself and went over to speak to Nicollier.

"Don't worry," the Commander said softly, "I think you can sit this one out."

Nicollier looked relieved, for a moment, but then she looked back over her shoulder at the departing Jenkins.

"He'll be okay," said Shepard, confidently. "We'll be back before you know it."

Nicollier followed Jenkins and the Spectre out of the mess hall, and Shepard turned back to look at Komarov and Traynor.

"Now," she said, "I do need to grab something to eat, but when I'm done let's see if we can get a shuttle kitted out."

* * *

"Trust me," she heard, as she walked up to the shooting range two hours later. "If you could shoot half as well as me, I'd have heard of you."

 _Looks like our Spectre is winning hearts and minds already_ , she thought. She recognised the voice of the turian who started protesting as well. Sometimes young male turians were very predictable.

Having a shooting range on board a ship, with only a few thin sheets of metal protecting them from the vacuum of space, had always seemed like a bad idea to her. But the ship-generated mass effect fields meant that no bullets would actually leave the range, any stray shots being instantly frozen in place as they crossed an invisible barrier. Still, she'd never spent much time in here herself. It wasn't her skill with a pistol that the Hierarchy valued.

"Sidonis, I see you've met our guest," she said as she entered the range.

She waved him to ease as the ship's gunnery officer turned to give a startled salute. Nicollier and Jenkins were both still there as well, she was relieved to see. _We wouldn't want the Spectre walking around entirely without an escort_.

"I think Li wanted a word, if you've got a minute," she lied, smoothly. Lilihierax, the ship's chief engineer, would find something for the younger officer to do once Sidonis arrived. And it gave her an excuse to break things up here without drawing attention to what she was doing.

"Making friends already, Vakarian?" she asked archly once Sidonis and the other two crew members had left. Not for the first time, he seemed embarrassed, mandibles working silently. _Some turians are lucky they don't blush_ , she thought to herself.

"I think we're ready to go," she said. "The landing team will be you, me and Privates Jenkins and Komarov."

"Komarov," he said, clearly trying to match the name to one of the people he'd met earlier. "Is she another biotic?"

"Shuttle pilot," she explained, shaking her head. "Nicollier won't be coming with us."

"Oh, I thought .." he sounded uncertain. "Maybe two biotics would be more useful?"

"Why?" Shepard asked lightly, trying to deflect. "I thought this was a simple reconnaissance mission. Expecting trouble?"

"I always expect trouble," he replied, almost instantly. She tried her best not to roll her eyes. _I'm pretty sure he's practiced that line to himself in a mirror_ , she thought. _Probably more than once_. Once again, she found herself wondering just how young he was.

"Do you have any family, Vakarian?" she asked instead.

"I …" he paused, and she remembered trying to interpret his face markings earlier in the day. "Yes. A sister. A coupe of years older than me, actually."

"But you'd do whatever it took to protect her, right?" she demanded, not waiting for an answer.

"My family - my birth family, I mean - all died when I was young," she continued "I couldn't protect them. But this crew … I can protect them. And I will. Not from everything - we're soldiers, and sometimes soldiers die. But I can protect them from themselves. I know what their limits are, how hard I can push them. If somebody ordered Nicollier down to Eden Prime, she'd go. But that wouldn't be a good idea."

She paused, drew a breath.

"Like I said earlier, on Eden Prime people are traditionalists. On most human worlds, when parents realise that their children have biotics they're sensible about it. They might not be happy, they might start talking about eezo exposure, corporate malpractice, lawsuits… but they're sensible. And the sensible thing to do to help a young biotic is to send them to a turian training camp, so they can learn to use their abilities safely, without hurting themselves or the people they care about. Most auxiliary biotics start out that way, in fact.

"On Eden Prime, they don't send biotics to turian-run training camps. Not if they can help it. They don't send them to training camps at all. Officially, they've signed treaties saying that they will. Officially, the number of biotic children born on Eden Prime is just unusually low. But unofficially…"

She shook her head.

"Jennifer was thirteen years old when her family decided she needed to be fixed. She spent six months in an illegal treatment centre out in the backwoods somewhere. Six months and three days, to be precise. That's how long it took her to break out and sneak on board a ship heading out to Horizon. She still doesn't talk about that time, but she's gotten better. When she first arrived on Horizon she didn't talk at all. She didn't use her biotics without crying until she was fifteen. Didn't sleep with the lights off, either." Shepard hadn't known Nicollier then, hadn't been on Horizon when she arrived. She'd only read the reports later.

"So, Vakarian" she said flatly, trying to sound as final as possible. "If I say she's not going back to Eden Prime, she's not going."

She'd said a lot more than she'd intended to. She hadn't realised how long it had been since she had somebody to talk to who wasn't in her chain of command. _Maybe those counselling sessions the Systems Alliance used to organise weren't such a bad idea after all_ , she mused. It might have just been bad luck that the counsellor she'd been assigned was an idiot.

She hoped Vakarian wouldn't try to assert his authority as a Spectre here. Technically, of course, if he wanted Nicollier to come to Eden Prime, then that was what would happen. They were in Council space, after all, and this was a ship of the Hierarchy. But she hoped he wouldn't.

"Understood, Commander." he said quietly, after a few moments. She wanted to say something in reply - to thank him, maybe - but she couldn't put it into words.

They walked down to the shuttle bay in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In general I'm trying not to go back and rewrite any of the chapters that first appeared on FanFiction.net. That said, I've very slightly changed some of the dialogue in this chapter because I realised it contradicted something expanded upon later.


	3. Spectres 2

The second thing Shepard noticed about Eden Prime was the people. The spaceport they'd set the shuttle down in was filled with teeming crowds of passengers, flight crew, porters and technicians. Most people who lived on Eden Prime rarely if ever left, but almost everyone who did had to pass through this spaceport to do so.

Shepard couldn't remember seeing this many humans together in one place for a long time. Maybe she never had. It was strange - unsettling - to see so many faces that were so like hers all at once. She wondered if her grandparents' generation on ancient Earth had felt like this all the time.

The first thing Shepard noticed about Eden Prime was the smell.

To be fair, all planets smelled terrible. That was something you only realised after you'd lived in space for a while. Only when your nose had had a chance to get used to breathing in clean, sterile air did it start to realise what air was actually supposed to smell like. But something about the air of Eden Prime smelled uniquely horrible. She wondered briefly if it affected Vakarian the same way; a turian's sense of smell was notoriously hard to compare to a human's.

Jenkins, standing beside her, took a deep breath and grinned happily.

"Feels good to be out in the fresh air, doesn't it ma'am?"

She was pretty sure he wasn't joking. _Well_ , she thought, _He did spend most of his life on this planet_.

"It's certainly a change, Private," she said mildly.

"Not a lot of alien faces, ma'am." said Komarov. Shepard nodded agreement silently. There weren't many decorated human faces, either. _Maybe Komarov should stay with the shuttle,_ she thought.

"Well, what now, Vakarian?" she asked the Spectre. He looked around the spaceport curiously.

"Well," he began, "I think, uh." He cleared his throat, flexed his mandibles slightly. _Maybe that answers the question about the smell_ , she thought.

"The dig site's a few klicks away from here, out in the hills," he said. "We lost contact a while ago, so there's no point rushing in there guns blazing now. Whatever happened was probably long over days ago."

"Still," he said, his voice becoming less sure, "I'd rather not draw too much attention to our arrival."

The Spectre's eyes flicked up and to the right. Shepard realised he must be looking something up: a map, most likely. Although the primary purpose of electronic visors was to augment sight, most models tended to throw in extra features like extranet access or in-built databases. All of which was probably useful for a Spectre on a strange alien world or unfamiliar ship. She hadn't noticed him doing it earlier, but this must have been how he managed to check her service files back on board the _Resolute_.

"There's a maglev train that stops close by here and will take us most of the way," Vakarian said. "We can call the shuttle over once we've arrived."

"Lead the way, Vakarian," she said easily.

"Ah, actually Commander," he said, "I thought it might make sense to split up on our way to the train station. You know, try to pick up some local background on the way? You and Private Jenkins might overhear something I wouldn't. We'll stay in radio contact throughout, of course."

Shepard shrugged. "Works for me," said. "You okay waiting here for a bit, Komarov? We'll signal you once we've secured the dig site."

The shuttle pilot nodded quickly. Vakarian strode away to the north, and - at a signal from Shepard - Jenkins led her along a different route in the opposite direction. They'd made planetfall sometime late in the afternoon, local time. The concourse was bathed in the light of the setting sun. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Jenkins intent on remember the route to the maglev station while Shepard looked curiously at the people around her.

"Did you grow up around here, Private?" she asked, curiously.

"Near here, ma'am." Jenkins voice was oddly subdued. "Grew up on a farm, actually."

She stayed quiet, waiting for the younger man to continue.

"After First Contact, my friends and I used to come out into the fields most nights," he said. "We'd try to kid ourselves that we could pick out the turian ships in orbit, or that we could see the redshift of the batarian ships retreating back to Khar'shan. But mostly we'd just look up and wonder what else was out there. Or who else, I guess."

He shook his head, slowly. "When they realised what I was spending my evenings doing, my parents tried teaching me the names of the stars, the constellations. They gave up pretty fast: these weren't the stars they knew, and most of the constellations in our sky still don't have names. But I told them it didn't matter what they were called. They were breathtaking. Beautiful."

That was probably the longest speech Jenkins had given in the year or so she'd known him. Shepard wondered what had inspired it. _I guess going home for the first time is a strange experience for all of us_ , she thought.

"The stars look pretty good up close too, Jenkins," she said softly.

Shepard thought briefly of her own childhood, back on Mindoir. She'd grown up on a farm too. Had her parents tried teaching her the names of the local stars? Surely they must have done. The truth was, she couldn't remember. Although she thought about her family a lot, she couldn't remember much about her life before First Contact. She'd been happy though. She thought she'd been happy.

Shepard shook her head, annoyed at herself for dwelling on the past when she was meant to be focused. They were walking through a series of narrow alleyways and side passages, where the crowds were thinner - the ideal place for an ambush, unlikely as that sounded. She hoped Jenkins knew where he was heading.

He seemed confident at least, picking a deliberate path through the network of passageways. Shepard was surprised by how clean the area around spaceport was. She'd always thought of cities as being unclean, somehow. Full of people and their possessions and their waste. But the buildings here looked almost brand new, even along these side streets.

After heading south for a few minutes, they started to swing towards the right, until by Shepard's reckoning they were heading almost directly due west. Then they turned through a narrow gate and were back on the main concourse, in an area full of people.

"Not far to go now, ma'am." said Jenkins. Shepard was about to answer when she heard a distant high-pitched voice.

"Look, mommy! More soldiers!"

A small girl - perhaps nine years old, if Shepard had to guess - was standing by a middle-aged woman on the other side of the concourse. Spying Shepard and Jenkins, the child tried to run towards them, only to be pulled back by her mother.

"Any good with kids, Jenkins?" asked Shepard, hopefully. _Well, Vakarian did want us to interact with the locals_ , she thought.

The girl broke free of her parent and ran up to them.

"Are you soldiers?" she demanded, standing a few feet away and looking at them both curiously. "Are you with the Spectre?"

Shepard nodded warily. She felt awkward around young children - she'd never had much experience of it. No younger relatives when she was growing up. Except for a few rare early-developers, like herself, the training camp had mostly been a mixture of teenagers and adults. Being stared at by turian children on Palaven probably didn't count as preparation.

"Well, what's she like?" the girl demanded.

Shepard looked at Jenkins, nonplussed. _She?_ But before she could try to answer, the girl's mother reached them, apologising and pulling the girl away.

"I hope she wasn't bothering you," the woman apologised. "She's just crazy about soldiers these days, it's all she seems to talk about. Well, of course you know how children get at this age."

Shepard didn't, not really. At the girl's age she'd probably been in biotic training for a year, spending most of her time trying to get small objects to levitate off a desk or pouring water from glass to glass without moving her hands. She'd been fitted for her first biotic amp by the time she was eight. She hadn't dreamt about being a soldier; she'd always known she'd become one.

"No problem at all, ma'am," she said, as smoothly as she could. "Your daughter mentioned something about a Spectre. Did you see her?"

"Yes, there was a Spectre here earlier," the woman admitted. "An asari. Wandering around here like she owned the place. Owned it and was embarrassed by how run-down she'd let it get."

Shepard nodded. _Definitely sounds like an asari_ , she thought. One of her instructors, when she was older, had been an asari. She'd taught her a lot about biotics, but they'd never been close.

"I didn't like her," the woman confided. "I know it's not the sort of thing we're meant to say, but I just find the asari rude, you know? How can a whole species live for centuries and yet never bother to learn some basic manners?"

Shepard nodded again, fighting back the beginning of a grin. That did sound a lot like what she used to think about her old instructor.

"To be honest," said the woman, lowering her voice, "I've been worried about my little girl, traipsing after the Spectre like she's been all morning. I mean, the government says children can't catch biotics that way, but .. well, they would, wouldn't they?"

Shepard's small grin froze in place.

"She's been healthy enough so far," the woman said, looking down at her daughter fondly. "Still, you can't always tell, can you?"

"No," Shepard agreed stiffly, "I suppose you can't."

The mother and child walked away, the girl looking back at them as they left. Jenkins looked at the Commander nervously. For a minute she thought he was going to say something, but he seemed to think better of it. They walked a few more minutes in silence, until they found themselves at the entrance to the maglev station.

The wall was covered in fresh white paint, leaving only fragments of the messages that must have decorated it before: TERRA … REMEMBER … MUST NOT. Shepard stared at them curiously, but that was all she could make out.

On the opposite wall, drawn in even fresher orange paint, was a strange looking pair of nested hexagons. _Looks like some sort of tag,_ she thought. She didn't recognise the design, but doubted it was anything official.

She was about to ask Jenkins about it, but as she turned around to address him Vakarian strode up out of the crowd.

"The train leaves in five minutes," announced the turian Spectre bluntly. "Let's move."

* * *

"An asari?" Vakarian demanded. "You're sure?"

Shepard shrugged. She didn't understand why their news had rattled Vakarian this much. "The woman we spoke to earlier seemed pretty sure there was an asari Spectre in town," she said. "And I can't think of a likely reason for her to lie about that. Of course, we have no way of knowing if the asari she was really is a Spectre, but ..."

Generally, lying about being a Spectre was something people only did if they were very desperate or very stupid. Almost all planetary authorities had access to verifiable and comprehensive lists of active Spectre agents, so you wouldn't be able to fool anybody with influence for long. And the Council took a very dim view of people who tried to impersonate its agents.

Vakarian shook his head, reluctantly conceding the point.

"Let's just hope we don't run into her," he said. Shepard had the impression he wanted to leave it at that. _Tough_.

"But why would the Council send two Spectres?" she pressed. _Two Spectres to investigate one missing archaeological team?_ Something didn't add up. What else could a Spectre be here for?

The turian's eyes flashed angrily at her question, but he remained silent.

"Is there something you're not telling us, Vakarian?" Shepard demanded.

"There are a lot of things I'm not telling you, Commander." he snapped. "Because you don't need to know."

"Now," he stood up, mandibles flexing, "Unless there was anything else?"

Shepard shook her head wordlessly and stalked away to the far end of the carriage. Jenkins followed her, nervously looking back at the Spectre.

"Commander," he said awkwardly, "I'm sorry. About that woman earlier…"

Shepard looked at him without speaking.

"Jennifer," - he coughed, corrected himself - "Nicollier told me a bit about what she went through, growing up here. About her family, and what they did to her. It's not…" he trailed off, looking down at the floor of the train carriage.

"It's not fair, I know." said Shepard, as gently as she could. "The thing is: life isn't fair, Private. Not always. Not often, if I'm being honest. But you don't need to apologise for every idiot you share a planet with."

Jenkins looked unhappy.

"I always thought we were lucky, ma'am," he said. "Because the batarians never attacked Eden Prime, I mean. And of course, we were lucky. But maybe that's why we're not like the other human planets in the Traverse."

That was probably a large part of it, thought Shepard. Humans from the four worlds attacked in the First Blitz - Mindoir, Tiptree, Horizon and Dobravlaski - had something in common that wasn't shared by those from any of the other colony worlds. They knew what a difference the protection of the Hierarchy meant to their lives. Only people lucky enough not to know could entertain any fantasy of humanity surviving in the galaxy on its own.

"I always figured I'd come back here, once my tour was over and I'd got my citizenship," said Jenkins. "But these days … I'm not so sure."

Shepard had never asked Jenkins why he was so relaxed around biotics, given his background. _There's not exactly a delicate way to ask somebody why they're not a bigot,_ she thought. Still, Jenkins was making her curious. Had somebody in his family been a biotic, perhaps? She asked him, but he shook his head in reply.

"First biotic I ever met was Private Nicollier, ma'am," he said. "First day on board, fresh out of boot camp. Figured she was a pilot or a tech specialist. She was so small I couldn't understand how she'd made it on board. And I said so."

He grinned, his face lighting up at the memory.

"She offered to demonstrate, next thing I know she's thrown me twenty feet across the ship. Caught me at the other end, too. It was … awesome."

Shepard smiled too, even though she suspected the story had been exaggerated or edited in the telling. She couldn't really imagine Nicollier using her biotics on a crewmate without a lot more provocation than Jenkins had described. _Still_ , she thought, _I guess it all worked out well in the end_.

"Oh, by the way," she said, remembering the question she'd meant to ask him earlier. "I noticed something strange when we were approaching the station earlier. Graffiti, I guess, only the rest of the space port was so clean it stood out. Thought it might be some local gang thing."

She described the symbol she'd seen as best as she could, but Jenkins looked blank.

"Can you describe that again, Commander?"

It wasn't Jenkins who asked the question, but the Spectre. He'd walked back towards them, their earlier brief argument apparently forgotten, and now stood close by wearing a concerned look. Shepard wondered briefly how much of the previous conversation he'd overheard. As she repeated her description, the turian's face grew darker.

"That symbol's been flagged by other Spectres," he said. "It's linked to a human terrorist group. They call themselves Cerberus."

Shepard swore to herself softly. She hadn't recognised the symbol, but she'd heard of Cerberus. Most humans had. They called themselves a pro-human group, but that didn't stop them blowing up human-owned buildings, or attacking turian vessels with humans on board.

Most infamously, they'd tried to murder the President four years ago, right before the start of the batarian's Second Blitz. They'd failed, but the bomb they'd planted on his shuttle had taken one life: the President's teenage granddaughter. Shepard was sure that they'd been acting in concert with the batarians - the timing was too suspicious otherwise. But Cerberus's usual defenders on the extranet had denied this vehemently, and Hierarchy intelligence had never been able to find any definitive proof.

Still, it was odd to see them active on Eden Prime. One thing Cerberus wasn't was traditionalist Their public extranet supporters also advocated for pursuing research into creating biotics and better exploiting the secrets of the Prothean ruins. They insisted that this was the only way that humanity could protect itself without the Hierarchy. The fact that both those things were very much illegal under Council law were, naturally, merely cited as evidence that the Council could not be trusted to protect human interests. _They must be here for the dig site_ , she thought.

If Cerberus was behind the missing volus expedition, then the mission was going to be a lot more complicated than she'd hoped.

* * *

"Oh, Spirits," said Jenkins, "What happened here?"

The archaeologists' camp had been ransacked. Equipment smashed, digging machines overturned. And a now-familiar logo sprayed over the walls of the few prefabs still standing: two orange, overlapping hexagons.

 _Cerberus_.

There was no sign of the archaeologists themselves. Privately, Shepard feared the worst.

"Be careful," said Vakarian, as they fanned out to explore. "We don't know who did this, when they did it, or where they are now. Don't touch anything that looks suspicious."

The sun had fallen below the horizon while there were aboard the maglev. The flashlights built into their suits cast long, strange shadows over the remains of the camp. Shepard thought she could hear a faint moaning sound in the distance. _Probably the wind_ , she told herself. _Or maybe some native animal_. Planets were strange places.

Without speaking, she'd taken point, leading Jenkins and Vakarian in a slowly widening spiral path. Fragments of broken glass shattered underfoot as they stepped carefully over broken machine parts and the pits and troughs that littered the ground..

The smell that Shepard had noticed on making planetfall was back now, stronger than ever. It smelled like something rotten, like something left and abandoned in an unsealed storage unit. _It smells like death_ , she thought, grimly.

"No sign of any combat. Didn't this camp have any defences?" she asked Vakarian, turning to look back over her shoulder.

"Security mechs, I'm told," he called back. "Looks like they were deactivated somehow."

They hadn't seen any signs of security mechs, active or otherwise. Shepard suspected the Spectre was right. In theory, top of the line security drones were unhackable. But reality and theory didn't always agree. Shepard had heard rumours of hackers taking control of mechs and marching them miles away from their intended location. Or altering their IFF protocols to identifies their employers as enemies.

Those rumours didn't stop people using security mechs in place of genuine trained professionals, of course. They weren't used by any respectable military force, but corporations and private citizens used them throughout the galaxy. People used them to cut corners and to cut costs, especially when they didn't really believe any security presence would really be needed. Mechs didn't eat, didn't sleep and didn't demand overtime pay. But they didn't think either, not really. Council law was very strict about this.

Centuries ago a Council species called the quarians had developed genuine thinking machines. When those machines had risen up and taken control of the quarian's home world the Council had simply shut down the quarian embassy and refused to speak to their ambassadors. The surviving quarians had been left to fend for themselves, as best they could. No Council race since had ever dared to develop anything close to true artificial intelligence.

But that meant that security mechs were almost laughably stupid. Capable of following limited orders, just about, but incapable - by design - of showing any sign of resourcefulness or originality. Incapable of feeling curiosity, loyalty or determination. Shepard, like most of the galaxy's military, would never trust her life to something less intelligent than a hamster.

With the right preparation, most experts would always bet on a smart organic being able to bypass or subvert a mech's internal system. The archaeologists, it seemed, had bet the other way. It was a bet they'd paid for with their lives.

They'd been exploring the camp for about half an hour before Vakarian found the bodies. Two turians and five volus, lying together at the bottom of an excavation pit. The turians had both been shot in the back at close range. The volus's pressure suits had been ruptured, flooding their bodies with a poisonous mixture of nitrogen and oxygen. Death would have come for them within minutes.

The faint moaning Shepard had heard earlier was louder now. One of the volus was still - just barely - alive.

"Easy, Vol-clan," Shepard said soothingly, bending down to inspect the volus's injuries, applying medi-gel to the broken and bleeding skin. She knew it was a futile gesture. However minor the physical injuries, there was no way a volus could survive for long outside the high-pressure ammonia atmospheres of their native planet Irune. All the same, the volus fought hard for consciousness, struggling against the pain to speak.

"She …" the dying volus wheezed, looking up at Shepard and Vakarian desperately. "... she killed … everyone ..."

The volus coughed again, eyes closing, and spoke no more. Shepard whispered a short prayer to the spirits of the area. She wished she knew more about the volus's beliefs. The Vol-clan, as they called themselves, had always been steadfast allies of humanity. They'd defended them in internal Hierarchy politics, advocated for their causes in the Citadel, sold them crucial technology and medical supplies as they rebuilt after the Blitz. And they'd never asked for anything in return.

Shepard hadn't been able to protect these people from whoever had murdered them. But she would have liked to be able to at least give their families the comfort of knowing that the fallen had been granted the proper burial customs. _Assuming that the volus even have burial customs as we understand them_ , she reflected. _Or families_.

The turian Spectre brought her back to the moment. He peered into the pit, then turn his flashlight back to some of the wreckage they'd walked past earlier.

"This is wrong, Commander," Vakarian said urgently. "Look around. There's sign of heavy rainfall on the soil that's been torn up, but it's been dry here since we arrived. Some of the broken machinery is starting to rust. And there are weeds growing up in places that must have been covered by those prefab modules, before they were overturned."

He gestured with the light as he spoke, pointing out the evidence he was describing.

"This site must have been hit days ago, right around the time the Council first lost contact." he said.

"But those people we found must have been shot only minutes before we arrived. That volus wouldn't have been able to talk otherwise. So where were they in the meantime? And where are the people who shot them? What happened here?"

Shepard frowned, trying to piece the puzzle together. _Somebody attacked the camp, then came back later for the survivors, maybe,_ she guessed. _But then why didn't the survivors manage to get a message out?_ _Or did somebody find them somewhere else and bring them back here to kill?_

"Do you think somebody is trying to blame this on Cerberus?" she asked, almost to herself. "A third party we don't know about?"

The Spectre shook his head. "I don't-" he started.

"Commander, I found something strange."

It was Jenkins' voice, calling from further down the slope. _Damn it, Jenkins_ , thought Shepard. _You weren't supposed to wander ahead_.

They found him standing a few yards down a spiralling path that led into a large cavernous space. Shepard couldn't tell if this had been dug out of solid rock by the archaeologists' machines or if it was something older.

The object of Jenkins' attention was certainly something new. A large metallic device, arranged on a tripod, about as high as a human and wide enough to block the path down. The device was covered in plastic screens, flashing with green-tinted texts and numbers. Jenkins was peering at once of those screens as Shepard and Vakarian arrived.

"I think it's some sort of transmitter," he said, turning around to look back up at them. "It's broadcasting-"

As Jenkins turned, the screens also suddenly flashed red, then shut off entirely. Half a second later, without any further warning, the device exploded. Flames and shards of broken metal shot out in all directions.

Instinctively, without time to even shout a warning, Shepard threw up a biotic barrier, shielding herself and Vakarian from the force of the blast. Jenkins - standing closer to the exploding device - wasn't so lucky. The blast sent him flying backwards, his head crashing against the cavern wall with a horrific cracking sound. He fell to the ground, twitched briefly, then lay still. Even as Shepard ran forward, she knew that she was much too late.


	4. Spectres 3

Jenkins was dead. Shepard stood and stared numbly at his body, lying broken on the floor of the cavern. _Damn it, Jenkins_ , she thought tiredly. _You really weren't supposed to wander ahead_. At her side, her fingers twitched randomly, pebbles and dust skittering about her feet.

The natural human reaction would have been to cry, she suspected. She just felt empty. _I'm sorry, Jacob,_ she thought. _I fucked up again. All these years and I still keep letting you down_. It had been almost eight years now since Private Jacob Taylor's death, but the guilt still felt as raw as ever.

If she'd been paying more attention to their route, if she'd been less focused on showing off to her new officers, she might have been able to avoid the thresher maw nest entirely. But she'd been young, cocky, convinced that she was invincible. She hadn't done her job properly, and Jacob Taylor had paid the price. She'd never worn the medal they'd given her afterwards. It wouldn't have felt right to do so. It would have felt like a betrayal.

She'd told herself after that that she'd do better, next time. That she'd honour Taylor's memory by learning from her mistakes. She'd tried. But trying wasn't always enough. It hadn't been enough on Epyrus or on Torfan, and it hadn't been enough tonight. She wondered if Nicollier would ever forgive her for this. _I should have ordered her to come_ , she thought. _If she'd been down here to look out for him..._

"Commander, I …I'm sorry, I don't know what to say."

She hadn't noticed Vakarian moving to stand behind her. She didn't think she was ready to speak yet. She couldn't stop staring at the body. Jenkins had been a tall man, but he looked so small now.

 _I am my thoughts_. She forced herself to breathe in. To breath out again.

"Soldiers die," she said slowly. "I said that earlier, didn't I?" It seemed like a long time ago now.

"Jenkins though …" she trailed off. Her voice was shaking. She hated the fact that she couldn't make it stop.

"He grew up near here, you know?" she said. Of course, she hadn't known that herself until today. She'd known what planet he'd been born on, but very little else about his childhood. They hadn't talked all that much, she realised now. Not about anything that really mattered. Now they never would.

"He grew up on this planet, volunteered to go out into space to defend his home, and he ended up dying right back here," she said, forcing herself to continue. "Not killed in battle, fighting an honest enemy face to face, but murdered in the dark by some coward's bomb. Stabbed in the back by his own kind.

She couldn't keep herself from trembling. _Shock_ , she told herself. _Adrenaline. Physical reactions you can't expect to avoid_. _Not your fault_. But there was more to it than that. She was angry. Angrier than she'd been in a long time.

"I'll miss him." she said. "All the crew will." Jenkins was - had been - an easy person to like. It wasn't much of an epitaph, but it would do.

The human and the Spectre were both silent for a minute. The burning fragments of the wrecked machinery cast wild shadows on the walls of the cave. The weather outside had begun to grow worse, storm winds blowing in from the south.

"We're going to find the people who did this, Vakarian," she said finally, forcing herself to look the turian in the face. "Cerberus, or whoever they are. And when we do, they're going to die."

Her voice wasn't shaking any more.

Any reply Vakarian might have been about to make was cut off by the sound of the radio crackling to life.

".. omannder, this … is Komarov … you read?" a tinny voice echoed in both their ears, partially drowned out by the squealing noise of static. " ...peat, this is Privat-"

The rest of of the transmission was lost to the static. Shepard fiddled with the controls, but there was nothing she could do.

"Damn it," swore Vakarian. "We shouldn't be so far out from the spaceport that we can't get a signal."

Shepard shook her head. "Maybe something about these ruins is interfering with reception?" she suggested. _Or maybe somebody's interfering with the signal_. She hoped Komarov wasn't in any danger. _She should be safe in the spaceport_ , she reassured herself. Unless things were going much more bady than she'd imagined.

They both heard the rumble of a spacecraft flying low overhead. _Cerberus?_ she thought. She hoped it was. It would be good to have an enemy to fight.

Shepard made eye contact with Vakarian, exchanging nods, and they both moved wordlessly into cover. It was impossible to see out into the darkness beyond the cave, but at least they should be able to hear anybody moving down the stairway before they could be seen themselves. She checked her biotic amp, cold and ready on the back of her neck, while Vakarian prepared his rifle. _I hope he's as good with that thing as he thinks he is_ , she thought.

Everything was quiet again, but for the noise of the wind howling outside. Shepard took several slow breaths. She was about to speak when the silence was broken by the distinctive sound of footsteps. The footsteps echoed down the spiralling stairway, the footsteps of a single person walking casually and unhurried. Shepard readied herself for combat. _One Cerberus agent shouldn't be any problem,_ she thought. But perhaps she was being overconfident again.

The footsteps stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and she heard a voice cough delicately. Cautiously, Shepard peered up over the ruined wall she was crouching behind.

The new arrival was an asari. She wore blue and white armour and carried a heavy assault rifle by her side. The faint glow of a biotic barrier lit her up in purple light. Her eyes and cheeks were decorated with faint violet spirals; Shepard had seen similar designs worn by other asaris, but had never investigated to learn what - if anything - they meant. As she looked, she saw the asari smile slightly to herself, as if enjoying a private joke.

 _Well, safe bet she's not with Cerberus, anyway_ , thought Shepard.

"Who are you?" she called out, standing up slowly from behind her cover. Vakarian, she saw, remained crouched in the shadows, his rifle pointing steadily at the asari.

"Tela Vasir," the asari said, her smile widening. "Special Tactics and Recon. And you must be Commander Shepard."

* * *

A familiar figure was waiting for them by the shuttle when they got to the top of the dig-site.

"Komarov!" exclaimed Shepard. She was torn between relief that the pilot was all right and irritation that she wasn't back at the spaceport where she was supposed to be.

"Vasir found me in the spareport an hour ago," she explained to Shepard. "Told me she'd been in touch with the _Resolute_ and needed me to fly her out to the dig-site. She thought it would make sense for us to work together on this. I tried contacting you on the way but we couldn't get a clean signal."

"We don't need any back-up on this mission," said Garrus firmly.

 _Ah_ , thought Shepard. _This might be awkward._ The turian had been brooding silently since they'd met Vasir down in the cave. By his body language he was obviously unhappy. He reminded her of some of the younger turian officers she'd had to work with. Pride in their newly-won status could all too easily manifest as stubborn over-defensiveness when their ideas or judgements were questioned. Once again, she wondered how old the turian Spectre was. She'd been surprised if he wasn't at least a couple of years younger than her. Which would make him very young indeed to be a Spectre.

"Relax, Vakarian." said Vasir, "I didn't fly halfway across the galaxy to provide a junior Spectre with back-up."

The asari's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. Vakarian scowled, mandibles flaring. Shepard didn't think he taken the 'junior Spectre' remark very well.

"Who sent you out here, Vasir?"he asked, angrily. "The Council? Does Tevos think-"

"Nobody sent me," Vasir replied, interrupting him. She paused, considering.

"The truth is, I'm hunting for a members of a human terrorist group," she said. "They call themselves Cerberus. I assume you've heard of them. They've certainly left their mark on this place.

"I got some intel that they were active on this planet, and a tip about some of the communication methods they use. I was exploring the spaceport when I picked up their signal. That led me here."

"What made you look for our pilot?" asked Shepard, curiously. "We certainly weren't the only shuttle at the spaceport, so if you just wanted to get here quickly…"

"I didn't look for her," the asari said, "Not at first. Once I picked up the signal and decoded the message, I realised that Cerberus were interested in Kumun Shol's missing dig team. After some digging I realised that Vakarian was already looking into that and might already be planetside. I assumed he'd have travelled here via a Hierarchy ship, and the _Resolute_ was the only turian ship in orbit. So I called up the ship and introduced myself, and they sent me to your shuttle pilot."

"Lucky break for you that we were here, ma'am" said Shepard.

The asari shook her head.

"Not just luck, Commander," she said. "Keep looking for leads and sooner or later you make your own luck. After all, good intel is what makes good Spectres. Any idiot can point a gun at somebody."

She said the last part with a pointed look at Vakarian and his sniper rifle. Shepard wondered if there was anything more to her apparent animosity than the asari's general disdain for non-biotics. At least Vakarian was easy to figure out.

Shepard decided to leave them to it and climbed inside the shuttle. She sat in the co-pilot's chair, stared into the darkness ahead, and tried to focus, breathing deeply while she concentrated on gathering her thoughts. After a short pause, Komarov joined her, sitting beside her in the pilot's seat. She looked nervous. Shepard could guess what she was worrying about. She'd been dreading this conversation all through the walk back with Vasir.

"By the way, um. Where's Jenkins, ma'am?" Komarov asked. "Did he head back to the spaceport before we got here? Or…"

"I'm sorry, Komarov," Shepard said, hoping her voice would stay level. "Jenkins… I'm afraid he didn't make it."

The young pilot blinked, wordlessly, fighting back tears.

"..oh." she said, quietly.

"The people who trashed this place," said Shepard slowly, unsure where to start. "Cerberus … they left behind some sort of bomb in one of the excavation chambers below us. We must have done something to set it off, somehow, but ..."

She trailed off, hopeless. What was there to say, anyway? Anything she could think of would just feel like she was making excuses. Richard Jenkins was dead, and it was her fault. _It's always my fault,_ she thought.

Komarov sat, quiet and small, on the pilot's seat, saying nothing. Shepard opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed her eyes. They both sat in silence for a while. The storm winds still raged outside, but inside the shuttle the sound was muffled.

"Commander, I-" at the sound of Komarov's voice Shepard opening her eyes again. But the pilot had nothing more to say. It was almost a relief when the two Spectres both pulled themselves into the shuttle, still arguing furiously.

"For the last time, this is my mission, Vasir," Vakarian snapped, "I don't need your help.".

"We're on the same side, Vakarian," replied Vasir. "We both want to bring down the Cerberus operatives who did this. I don't understand why you don't want to work together."

"The Council assigned me to this mission, not you" he said. "If you want Cerberus taken down, you should just let me get on with the job."

Vasir made a show of looking out of the shuttle's windows at the ruins of the dig-site, and of glancing pointedly in the direction of the pit they'd first found the bodies of the archaeological team, and in the direction of the chamber where they'd left Jenkins' body. "Oh yes, of course, Vakarian," she said pointedly. "I can see you're doing quite a job here.

Vakarian said nothing, but a dejected look crept over his face. Shepard found herself speaking up before she realised what she was doing.

"It was my fault, ma'am," she said quietly. "Vakarian recommended bringing a second biotic. I didn't listen. It's because of me that things went sideways."

She kept her eyes on Vasir's face, not daring to look at Komarov.

Vasir's expression was unreadable.

"This is a Spectre mission, Commander." she sad. "It's not your fault if things go badly. But since you say Vakarian listened to you then, perhaps you can talk some sense into him now?"

She pulled out an expensive looking datapad, and brought up a holographic map of the area.

"The Cerberus signal I picked up was being routed through a device near the cave I found you both in," she said. "Sub-FTL, but not on any of the registered radio bands. We were homing it on when it cut out abruptly, shortly before we landed."

That had been right around the time that Jenkins had somehow activated the trap hidden in the strange tripod device.

"But I traced the signal's target," Vasir said. "It was being beamed towards some hills, not far from here." She pointed to a spot on the map. "I think we should investigate. The sooner, the better. The three of us should have more than enough firepower to deal with anything we find there."

Shepard frowned. It did seem like their best shot at finding the people who'd trashed the camp. If the device had stopped broadcasting, it was surely only a matter of time before Cerberus moved to a new position or disappeared from the planet entirely. And an asari biotic would certainly be a useful asset if Cerberus had any serious defences.

"It … might make sense for us to work with Vasir on this," she told Vakarian, reluctantly. "Sir."

The turian sighed to himself and nodded. "Okay, Commander", he said. "We'll go with Vasir's plan. Let me just make a few calls first."

That said, he slipped back outside into the wind and darkness.

Vasir half-smiled again, tipping her head slightly in Shepard's direction. After explaining that she'd need to prepare herself for any combat, she too left the shuttle's cockpit, heading back to the rear of the ship.

"She's right, ma'am," said Komarov after the two Spectres had both left the cockpit. Her voice was quiet but steadier than Shepard would have expected . "It's not your fault."

* * *

In the end, their target was only a few minutes' flight away. They travelled most of the distance in silence, Komarov letting the shuttle coast on its mass effect fields and thrusters as they passed over the empty grassland in the valley below.

Up ahead, they could see a cliff face, pock-marked with cave mouths. According to Vasir's map, this was the target of the Cerberus broadcast. The Cerberus base. Almost without thinking, Shepard tested her helmet's radio and HUD. They'd agreed that Komarov would stay with the ship while she and the Spectres hit the base as hard and fast as they could.

"I'm not sure it's safe to go any further in this wind, ma'am," said Komarov eventually. "Even with the mass effect fields and the jet thrusters, there's a danger we could get pushed up against the rocks in a sudden gale."

"Down there." Vasir said, pointing at a large flat plateau. "Set us down here, pilot. We'll make the rest of our way on foot."

"... aye aye, ma'am," acknowledged Komarov. Vasir was so intent on the scene ahead of her that she seemed not to notice the almost imperceptible pause as Komarov glanced over to Shepard, who nodded in approval.

A short path winding along the cliff face joined the plateau Komarov had brought the shuttle down on to the nearest cave mouth. They were only twenty metres along this path when three humanoid figures ran out of the cave towards them, weapons raised. They opened fire almost immediately, engulfing Shepard and the two Spectres in a hail of bullets.

Shepard and Vasir both threw up biotic barriers, while Vakarian rolled into cover behind a outcrop of rock. This close, it was clear that their assailants weren't human. They weren't any other organic either.

"Good news, Vakarian," Shepard said dryly. "We found those missing mechs."

Shepard hadn't seen an asari fight for years, and she couldn't help herself from sneaking glances towards Vasir as they fought through the security mechs.

Vasir didn't fight like Shepard's old asari instructor. Her instructor had always insisted on the importance of poise, simplicity. She'd taught the recruits that a biotic should fight like a dancer, flowing from one position to another with the minimum of wasted movement.

But Vasir didn't dance. She didn't flow. She tore through the security mechs like a bulldozer, using her biotics at short range to warp and twist the mechs' armour. She combined her biotic powers with her assault rifle seamlessly, throwing out mnemonic patterns with one hand even as her other hand worked the trigger of her rifle. A mech to her left was thrown backwards with a biotic push, and its counterpart on her right fell to the ground with a large hole in the centre of its torso.

In fact all three of them worked well as a team, the asari closing rapidly with each group of mechs they found, supported by Shepard's longer range biotics and Vakarian's sniper rifle. Shepard's fingers flexed out a familiar well practiced mnemonic sequence, knocking the mechs down as they attempted to flank the asari. Vakarian's rifle raised and fired like clockwork, each shot seeming to find its way straight to the centre of a mech's head unit.

Her suit radio crackled to life, Vakarian barking out a warning. She spun to her left as a mech burst out of its hiding place, concealed against the cliff face by a thin layer of scree and debris. Before the mech could reach her, she ducked down, fingers twitching, and lifted. The mechs' momentum kept it moving toward her, but rather than crashing into her as it had attempted it found itself floating above her, then out into the void to her right. A few moments later the effects of the biotics wore off and the mech crashed down into the valley below.

Looking up, she saw Vasir repeat the trick with two more mechs. The asari looked over her shoulder and nodded, then they kept moving.

They'd destroyed around two dozen mechs by the time they reached the nearest cave mouth. Twenty-five, Vakarian insisted, after she brought it up.

"Not bad, Commander," he said, "Though I got two more than you, I think."

"This isn't a game, Vakarian," the asari said, disapprovingly.

Shepard tuned out Vakarian's response, thinking back instead to how the mechs had tried to ambush her earlier. It could have been pre-programmed behaviour, but Shepard didn't think so. Vasir didn't think so either, when she brought it up.

"You said these mechs were hijacked from the dig-site," the asari said thoughtfully. "My guess is that whoever did that was close by, still feeding them instructions"

"With any luck, we can catch them before they have a chance to escape." said Vakarian eagerly.

Vasir shook her head. "I told you, Vakarian, real Spectres make their own luck. You'll learn that when you get older."

She frowned slightly, corrected herself. "If you get older."

They walked in silence for a while after, the human and the turian following the asari through the tunnel as it slowly worked its way through the hills. Shepard braced herself for another mech ambush, but everything was quiet. Unnaturally quiet. This far into the hillside they couldn't hear the wind. The only sound she could hear was the sounds the three of them made as they proceeded forwards. Forwards and - as far as she could tell - increasingly upwards, towards the summit of the hill.

Eventually they reached an area where the path split in two. To their right, a tunnel sloped lazily upward, spiralling around a central pillar. To their left, a smaller tunnel headed down.

"I'll take the high path, you two take the low path," the asari said after a moment's pause. "We'll rendezvous back here in an hour if we're not found our Cerberus hacker before then. Or anything else interesting."

Shepard nodded, taking Vakarian's silence for assent. They'd cover more ground this way, and the asari could evidently take care of herself. Besides, there'd been no sign of any mechs for some time - Shepard suspected that the ones they'd fought had been all the mechs that the volus archaeologists had had.

"Any idea what we're looking for, ma'am?" she asked.

Vasir frowned thoughtfully.

"I understand the volus were looking for Prothean technology. Doesn't seem like they found anything, but I suggest you keep an eye out all the same. If you see anything strange, let me know."

"Any chance Cerberus took hostages?" asked Shepard.

The asari shook her head. "Honestly, I doubt it. Best to assume that everyone you encounter here is a potential hostile. Apart from me, of course."

She half-smiled again, then took off at a brisk jog up the sloping tunnel to her right.

"Okay, level with me. Just how long _have_ you been a Spectre, Vakarian?" Shepard demanded softly once the asari was out of earshot.

"Ah, well…" he said. "About six days, now."

She looked at him wordlessly for a minute, waiting for him to admit he was joking. When he didn't, she nodded slowly instead, gesturing for him to continue. _Well,_ she told herself, _You did think he was young to be a Spectre_.

"This is my first solo mission," he admitted. "It was supposed to be a simple one. A routine search operation to appease some crazy volus with more credits than sense."

His mandibles moved up and down, while he stared around him in frustration.

"I've been trained for this," he said, "I've accompanied other Spectres on missions in the field, read their reports, but … it's different when it's real, you know?"

She nodded. Some experiences couldn't be prepared for. Not really. Not in any way that would help.

"I sometimes think things were easier when I was in the military," said Vakarian, almost wistfully. "I used to chafe at all the rules and regulations, but at least things were black and white."

They'd been walking for a few minutes when the tunnel the asari had sent them down opened out into a more developed area.

It looked like this was some sort of science block. They were walking through a series of small cells, each connected to the others by a series of airlock-style doors. Each cell contained a single strange item, presumably lifted from the volus' dig-site. Shepard couldn't tell whether or not they were Prothean, but they certainly looked old.

Most of the artefacts were hooked up to much more modern computer systems. _Monitoring them, or drawing power from them, or something else?_ Shepard couldn't tell. She did wonder if they should start dismantling them, but without any idea of what that could do it didn't seem wise. Instead they walked carefully around the artefacts, from one cell to the next.

When they reached the fourth cell, Vakarian switched his radio off and gestured for Shepard to do the same.

"You should be careful around Vasir," he said. "She's … trouble. If we find anything here, I suggest we keep it to ourselves."

"You don't think asari can be trusted?" Shepard asked curiously. It made sense, she realised. With tensions growing between the Hierarchy and the Asari Republics, it was only natural that relations between the turian and asari Spectres would also have begun to deteriorate.

But - "No, that's not what I meant, " he insisted. She had the impression that she'd managed to offend him, that he was trying to articulate a proper response.

That was why he wasn't paying attention when the next door cycled open and he almost walked into a human woman on the other side. She was perhaps a couple of inches taller than Shepard, so she was still dwarfed by the turian. The nondescript black armour she wore matched the colour of her hair, which she'd somehow pulled up and pinned at the top of her head. Shepard only had half a second to note any of this before the woman and the Spectre both burst into motion.

The startled turian reacted almost immediately, but the human reacted faster. As Vakarain reached to grab her, she kicked out at his leg, striking him just above his reversed knee. He staggered a bit, and with her other leg she swept both his feet from under him, spinning around and twisting him over her hip until he fell sprawling onto the floor.

She pulled a pistol from her belt and pointed it at the turian's head. The whole exchange had taken only a couple of seconds.

At the other end of the room, Shepard flung out her hand and the woman's gun flew out of her grasp. The other human recovered faster than Shepard thought possible, her other hand dropping to her side and tossing a grenade in her direction. Shepard threw up a barrier instinctively, but the weapon was a flash-bang, intended to distract rather than to injure. It exploded into a bright ball of light, temporarily blinding Shepard and filling the room with white smoke.

"You okay Vakarian?" Shepard called out through the clouds of smoke.

"I'm fine Shepard," Vakarian replied. "But she's getting away."

Shepard saw that the door they'd entered by was open again, smoke ebbing out into the cave network. The woman in black fled down the tunnels, and Shepard followed.

At first, it was all Shepard could do to keep the other woman in her sight. She was fast, agile, and had had plenty of time to learn the layout of the tunnel network. Once off the main path they'd travelled earlier, the tunnels were a maze; twisted passages crossing and intersecting in a way that didn't seem to make sense. The woman turned right, then left, then right again, and Shepard followed in hot pursuit, stumbling a bit as she threw herself around the tight corners of the tunnels. On her radio she could hear Vakarian speaking to Vasir, letting her know what was happening. If Vasir had noticed the earlier period of radio silence, she didn't mention it.

 _Who is this woman?_ Shepard wondered as she ran. She wasn't the sort of person Shepard had been expecting to find. The way she'd fought Vakarian didn't fit the profile of a tech specialist down on their luck or of a failed farmer turned terrorist. If she'd had to have guessed, Shepard would have classified her as a marine, Hierarchy trained, and a good one at that.

Either way, it seemed almost certain that she was linked to Cerberus. _Are human auxiliaries defecting to Cerberus now?_ She wasn't sure if she should be more worried about that, or the prospect of Cerberus having set up their own marine training programme. Shepard thought back to her earlier words to Vakarian. _If she's with Cerberus, if she helped set up that bomb, then she's dead either way,_ she thought to herself grimly.

She almost lost her after the fourth turning. The woman had ducked into a passage to her right, temporarily vanishing from Shepard's sight. When Shepard caught up, she saw the passage was a dead end. _Where did she…?_ A flash of movement on the edge of her peripheral vision made her look up - the woman had pulled herself up through a vent into another tunnel that ran above them.

Without pausing to think, Shepard took a step back and threw herself up after her. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase at the edge, then she got a firm grip and was able to lever herself up through the vent. Breathing harder than she'd have liked, she had time to see the woman in black run down a passage to her right. Shaking her head, she picked herself up and chased after her again.

At first this level seemed like a mirror image of the first. The other woman darted through the tunnels, left and right, either acting on instinct or following a well-memorised path. And Shepard pursued her, too caught up in the chase now to do anything else.

Then they were running through a long, straight passageway, still heading upwards. And now she had a clear and unobstructed line of sight. _Got you_ , she thought. Fingers flexing out a familiar mnemonic pattern, she pulled the woman backwards - or at least, she tried to. But nothing happened.

Nothing externally, anyway - her amp flashed hot against the back of her neck, overheating almost painfully. _She must have a dampener_ , Shepard realised. Though illegal on most of the colonies, there was a thriving black market trade in biotic dampeners: electronic devices that interfered with the operation of a biotic's amp, stopping them from using their abilities.

 _We'll just have to do this the hard way,_ thought Shepard.

Dampeners were notoriously energy-intensive, which must have been why the woman hadn't had hers turned on in the science cells earlier. Given enough time, the dampener's effects would wear off. Then Shepard would have the upper hand once more.

She wondered why the woman hadn't tried to ambush her on the way through the tunnels, or to take a shot at her now that her biotics were suppressed.

 _She's unarmed_ , she told herself. _The gun she lost back in the lab must have been her only weapon._

The thought gave her renewed energy, and she felt that she was starting to narrow the gap. With a start, she realised that she was more than narrowing the gap - she was suddenly gaining ground rapidly. The other woman had stopped running. In the darkness, she hadn't realised that they were outside the tunnels and back at the top of the cliffs.

* * *

They'd emerged out of the funnels high up in the hills, much higher than where they'd started. The chase must have taken longer than Shepard had realised. She hadn't run this fast for a long time, as the numb aching in her legs attested to. Her pistol was in her hands now, and she approached cautiously, half expecting an ambush or sneak attack by more of the security mechs.

The woman in black was cornered, her back to the cliff edge behind her. Shepard kept her pistol trained on her warily. The woman raised her arms carefully above her head, palms opened and empty. She raised an eyebrow quizzically. _She's not even out of breath_ , thought Shepard.

"Vakarian, Vasir, this is Shepard," she said into her suit radio. "I've got her."

No answer.

"Shepard, was it?" the woman asked conversationally. Shepard ignored her interruption, focusing on trying to adjust her radio's setting.

"You're fighting on the wrong side, Shepard. You know that, don't you?" The woman's spoke calmly, seemingly unconcerned about both the weapon being pointed at her and the gaping drop waiting behind her.

"Cerberus - the human species - we need people like you." she continued. "You have no idea what's out there, waiting, in the darkness."

 _I've got a pretty good idea_ , _thanks_ , Shepard thought. She'd been fighting slavers, pirates and mercenaries for all of her adult life. Her parents had been killed by batarian raiders when she was just a child. She knew what sort of horrors the galaxy was capable of. But she also knew that there was nothing to be gained in arguing with a fanatic. Which the woman in front of her so clearly was.

 _Come on_ , she thought to herself. _Just give me an excuse_. Vakarian or Vasir would be here in a few minutes. They'd want to interrogate the prisoner, find out what Cerberus had been up to here. That was the only reason the woman was still breathing.

"You think that the Hierarchy will protect us?" the woman asked, after Shepard had been silent for several minutes. "Or the Council? They won't be able to. They won't even try. When they finally realise the magnitude of the threat, they'll abandon the human colonies without thinking. They'd let Mindoir and Horizon and all our other worlds burn to ashes rather than risk the slightest threat to Palaven or Thessia."

She shook her head, regretfully. "It's not even a question of malice, not really. If your house was on fire, would you risk your children's lives to save your dog? However much you love your dog, it's not human."

Shepard fought down a retort - _don't engage with lunatics_ , she reminded herself, _that's what they want_ \- but she couldn't keep her disapproval from showing on her face. It was an analogy she'd heard before. _Calling me a dog seems a strange way of winning me over,_ she thought wryly.

"You know it's true, Shepard," the Cerberus operative insisted. "No matter how hard you try, you'll never be good enough for them. You will never be one of them."

"You talk too much," snapped Shepard, finally, raising her pistol as a warning. "I won't stand here and be lectured by a terrorist."

The radio fizzed briefly back into life. It was Vakarian, but his voice was faint, distorted. "Shepard, I've found … incredible …"

"Maybe you should go check on your boss, Shepard." the other woman suggested casually. "You and I can pick this up later."

As she spoke, she took a step backwards and dropped over the edge.

Cursing, Shepard ran forward. She hadn't considered the woman to be a suicide risk, but who knew what fanatics were capable of?

She'd barely made it halfway to the edge when she heard the familiar roar of a shuttle's engines.

 _Impossible,_ she thought to herself. _What pilot would be reckless enough to bring a shuttle so close to cliff face like that in these winds?_ Mass effect fields meant shuttles could fly in and out of planetary orbit with little ill-effect, but a shuttle simply didn't have the mass or the shielding necessary to survive actually crashing into the hillside. One wrong move by the pilot at the controls and the shuttle and its occupants could end up smeared across the landscape.

But that was exactly what had happened. The shuttle was visible now, rising up slowly past the cliff face. The craft itself looked utterly unremarkable; she'd probably walked past a dozen like it as she was leaving the spaceport. But there, grabbing hold of a support beam and very much alive, was the woman from Cerberus.

Shepard took aim with her pistol and fired, but the bullets bounced harmlessly off the shuttle's shields. She tried to pull the woman down with her biotics, but the warm pain on the back of her neck made it clear the dampening field was still in full effect.

The Cerberus agent smirked down at her, waving lazily with her free hand as the shuttle lifted upwards. Beyond her reach. She was still staring futilely upwards when her radio crackled back into life.

"Commander." The voice on the radio was Vasir's. "Are you in contact with Vakarian? I was talking to him a moment ago but he dropped out of signal. I've not been able to reach him."

Shepard realised with a sudden chill that she'd left Vakarian alone in the science area they found the Cerberus agent in. Who knew what she'd been doing before they arrived? She'd had time to sabotage the artefacts, or to plant another bomb. A bomb like the one that had killed Jenkins.

_Not again._

Shepard took off at a run, retracing the path she'd taken while in pursuit of the woman in black. She barely noticed the distance this time.

Vakarian was waiting for her in the cell where they'd first surprised the Cerberus agent. Or at least, he was waiting in the cell. Whether he was waiting for her was a different question. In truth he seemed entirely uninterested in her re-appearance.

The artefact in this room was unlike any of the others she'd seen. Bigger, older, and altogether stranger. This one, she was sure, was definitely Prothean. Something about it seemed disturbingly alien, incomprehensible in a way that none of the species who shared the galaxy now could be.

Unlike the other artefacts, this one was not attached to any sort of monitoring system. It was larger, too; freestanding, like an obelisk, or a beacon. And it floated above the floor. Ancient relic or not, it was obviously still capable of generating mass effect fields. _And who knows what else it's capable of?_

Vakarian seemed transfixed. He didn't respond to her arrival in the cell, or to her voice when she called out to him. Instead, nodding absently as if to a voice only he could hear, he took a deliberate step forwards, closer to the beacon. The beacon was humming, she realised - an unpleasant noise that set her teeth on edge. Shepard couldn't help but remember all the horror stories about lost survey teams driven beyond reason by mysterious alien artefacts. Gangs of savage cannibals wandering mindlessly through ancient ruins. It had been easy to laugh at such stories back in training, but now...

"Vakarian!" she shouted in warning one last time. The turian paid her no more attention than before and continued walking slowly towards the humming beacon.

Without thinking further, she threw herself across the room, crashing into the Spectre and pushing him towards the floor. They fell together, sprawling on the floor in the middle of the cell. Vakarian blinked up at her, a confused look on his face.

"Commander," he said, groggily, "What happened? Where was …?"

She stood up herself, looking down at Vakarian and opening her mouth to answer. The beacon stood behind him, filling half of her vision. The humming noise had grown louder, but now sounded much less discordant than it had moments ago. It felt almost as though the humming had meaning, as if the machine was trying to communicate. If only she could understand. She took a step forward.

The beacon was fully lit up now, green lights flickering and reforming across its surface. The machine was definitely trying to communicate. She took another step forward.

She was beginning to hear something else now. Almost like a voice, echoing in her skull, almost comprehensible. Vakarian was trying to say something too, she realised, but it wasn't important. Not as important as the beacon. She stepped forward again.

Another step… another… her burning alien vision smoke voices began filled screamed to the in blur room unison and-/ while-/ as-

Everything went black.


	5. Spectres 4

| Five Years Ago | 2175 CE, old Earth style | Epyrus |

It was always twilight on Epyrus.

The turian colony world orbited a dying red star, barely warm enough to sustain life. To the turian colonists, the world was exotic and romantic - a freezing cold winter resort compared to the heat of Palaven. To the volus, safely wrapped up in their high-pressure ammonia suits, indifferent to and shielded from their local surroundings, the world was no different from any other oxygen-based world. But to a human, it was a miserable place, dark and grey. An industrial manufacturing world, the colony had little to offer in terms of culture, works of art or scenic views. There was little for visitors to do on Epyrus, little for them to see And for species who relied on levo-amino acids there was little to eat as well.

No wonder people had tried to talk Shepard out of taking shore leave here. Her current ship, the _Havincaw_ , had passed by Epyrus en route to resupplying at a station further into the system. But Shepard hadn't let herself be dissuaded by her crew mates. There were anniversaries to be marked, preferably as far away as possible from anybody she'd ever have to speak to again.

And barren though it was, Epyrus had two things Shepard was looking for, and had them in large quantities: alcohol and dark places to drink it in. Sometimes you want to go where nobody knows your name.

* * *

"You're sure you can drink this stuff, human?" the bartender asked dubiously.

The bright green liquid he was pouring into her glass contained enough alcohol to put a nathak to sleep and enough dextrorotatory amino acids to ensure she'd be very sick the next morning. It was perfect.

"Just watch me," she said, as confidently as she could.

"Hey," he shrugged, "It's your funeral, kid."

 _No_ , she thought, _It's my birthday_.

Turians didn't particularly care about birthdays. They marked the anniversaries of a person's accomplishments: promotions, famous victories, honourable deaths. Most turians didn't think of the act of being born as an achievement worth commenting upon, much less celebrating. And as her sixth birthday had been the last time she'd seen most of her relatives alive, Shepard had always been conflicted about marking the occasion herself. She wasn't ever sure if she should be celebrating or mourning..

But this time was different. She was twenty-one now: by law, a full adult in the eyes of the Systems Alliance. Old enough to vote for elections to the Systems Parliament, old enough to stop going to those ridiculous counselling sessions every year, and old enough to get incredibly and yet legally drunk. And she was well on her way to doing just that.

Looking around the bar, she saw most of the patrons had the same idea. But something else was happening behind her. A turian and a quarian looked to be arguing in the corner. The turian seemed to be doing most of the speaking, while the quarian's body language suggested she was growing increasingly uncomfortable. _There's always some asshole around who has to start pestering the quarian about the geth_ , she thought. _Or accusing them of theft, or vagrancy_. Not that she was particularly sympathetic to the quarians themselves, at times - she didn't understand why they hadn't accepted the loss of Rannoch and moved on with their lives, in the way that humanity had done with Earth. Or most of humanity, anyway. But that was no excuse for harassment.

She pushed herself away from the bar and headed towards them. _I can't just watch this and do nothing_ , she thought.

"Hey," she called out, "Leave her alone. It's not the quarians' fault that an army of killer robots they built took over their whole planet."

She stopped, noticing that the turian and the quarian were both glaring at her.

"Well," she said, less confidently now. "I guess it is, isn't it? Only not this particular quarian's fault. Unless she's really old. Um."

The quarian started giggling. Shepard couldn't help but feel that this wasn't going as well as she'd planned.

"I wasn't bothering her," the turian said defensively. "I was offering to buy her a drink."

"You offered," the quarian trilled, her voice buzzing distinctively through her suit's speaker. "Now I'm considering. In the meantime, why don't you let me talk to the nice human? I've never spoken to one before."

The turian stalked off, muttering under his breath.

"So, uh." Alone in the company of the quarian, Shepard felt suddenly awkward. Why had she come over here? "You get hit on by turians a lot, then?"

"All the time," sighed the quarian. "Drunk ones, mainly. It gets really irritating."

Shepard realised suddenly that the quarian had been drinking too. Though how she'd managed to get anything past that face plate she wore was a mystery she'd rather not get into.

"Why don't you have one of those face tattoos all the other humans have?" the quarian asked, peering at her face curiously. "Are you … not cool?"

"First, they're not tattoos, they're just paint," said Shepard. "Second, they're not cool, they're stupid. Saren said…"

She paused. She'd met Saren several times in the years after he'd first rescued her. He'd visited the town she was staying in during the early reconstruction work, then been a guest several times at the training camp she'd moved into. They never spoke for long, but he seemed to remember her, calling her by name - though never by her first name, thank the spirits - and asking how her training was going. She liked to think that he was checking in on her.

The fourth time she'd met him, when she was fifteen, she'd worked up the courage to ask him why he didn't mark his face the way that the other turians she knew did.

He'd taken the question seriously, kneeling down so that she could look him in the eyes without straining her neck.

"Well, Shepard," he'd said. "Many of my people would say that it's a sign I can't be trusted, that I'm ashamed of my background or trying to hide it." She'd bitten her lip, nodded slightly. She'd already known that though - that was why she'd asked.

"We - the turians - started marking our faces in honour of our home colonies shortly before a terrible war that we fought amongst ourselves more than two thousand years ago." he'd said. She'd known about this, too; they'd covered the Unification War in history classes.

"Most turians," Saren had continued, "Would say that if you're not proud to wear the markings of your home colony, you must think there's something wrong with your colony, something you're ashamed about. Or that there's something wrong with you, something you're trying to hide."

He'd paused, looked away, thoughtful. She'd wanted to ask him more about his home colony - he'd never told her where it was - but something had made her pause. They had both stayed silent for a moment, before the turian continued.

"Most turians accept this without thinking. It's something we've done for a long time. But in doing so we're making a mistake. Holding on to ancient divisions when we should be united as one people. Dwelling on the past, clinging on to centuries-dead conflicts and rivalries, and for what? So we can look down on people who look and think like us but happen to have been born on the wrong world? The salarians don't do that, and look at what they've achieved, despite their short lives. The asari don't do that, and they practically run the galaxy."

He'd shaken his head then, looked her in the eyes again.

"I choose not to wear the markings of my home world, not because I'm not proud of it, but because I'm prouder still to be a turian, to be a member of the Hierarchy."

She'd nodded again then, more definitively. That did make sense. For humans, too.

Back in the present, the quarian interrupted her with a question.

"Hang on, you know Saren Arterius?" she asked. "The Spectre? Isn't he kind of a big deal?"

Shepard couldn't see the quarian's face, but she had the strong impression that she was frowning.

"Are you secretly somebody important?" the quarian asked accusingly. "Like, human royalty or something?"

"No," said Shepard. "I'm nobody special."

* * *

Shepard stayed in the bar for another five hours before she decided to call it a night. She'd stayed long enough to learn the names of most of the serious drinkers, long enough to try demonstrating her biotics to the crowd by throwing and catching empty bottles - or mostly empty bottles, as it turned out - and long enough to allow the quarian to persuade her to turn her translator off and try to learn how to speak some actual quarian.

("I can already speak human without a translator," the quarian had said dismissively when Shepard had first offered to return the favour. "You know, it's not a hard language to learn." She'd been intrigued by Shepard's claim that there were multiple human languages; intrigued, but deeply sceptical. She'd kept asking Shepard to explain why she needed so many.)

Most importantly, she'd stayed long enough that the bartender was now flatly refusing to sell her anything more. So it was probably time to go home. Home, on Epyrus, was a small room in a fancy hotel that Shepard couldn't really afford. Not on a Corporal's salary. But it was just for a couple of nights. The _Havincaw_ would be making its return journey then, and Shepard would be safely back on board when it departed. And expensive though it was, this hotel was one of the few places on Epyrus that actually served edible levo-based food..

"Keelah se'lai!" Shepard called out across the bar as she headed for the exit.

"Wszystkiego najlepszego z okazji urodzin!" the quarian sang back. Shepard paused. She didn't even remember teaching her that. The quarian turned her attention back to the two turians she was talking to and, shrugging to herself, Shepard stepped outside.

She made her way up the steps leading out of the bar carefully, navigated deliberately to the side of the street and, bending down carefully, delicately threw up most of the contents of her stomach. _Dextro-allergies are such a pain_ , she thought groggily.

She rode back to the hotel in an automated cab, her only company the cab's malfunctioning radio. The hiss of white noise was actually rather soothing, though sadly the ambience was interrupted from time to time by disjointed fragments of news bulletins or local performances of 'Die For The Cause'.

" _...Palaven now, where the young new Primarch has been visiting..._ "

Shepard remembered the last time she'd seen Saren, two years earlier. He'd been present during her debriefing after the disaster on Akuze, though he'd remained silent. Something in his eyes had made her decide against trying to speak to him afterwards. She'd worried it was disappointment.

" _...Din Korlack, the volus ambassador, condemned..._ "

Still, she'd rather face a disappointed Saren than put up with the inane questions of Dr Blake, her officially appointed human counsellor. One advantage of turning twenty-one was that, as a full legal adult in the eyes of the Systems Alliance, she'd never have to speak to that idiot again.

" _...and Omega. Agents of the Blood Pack are currently being held in custody on the Citadel, awaiting trial for wire fraud, copyright infringement and conspiracy to manufacture and disseminate weapons of mass destruction…"_

Dr Blake had even tried to persuade her not to sign up for a five year tour of duty after she'd finished her first last year. The doctor had told her that she didn't need to keep proving herself, that there was more in the galaxy to see than a war zone or the inside of a turian cruiser. Not for the first time, she'd realised that the doctor didn't understand anything.

Shepard wasn't doing this because she felt she owed the Hierarchy a debt. She was doing it because it was the right thing to do. Making the galaxy safer for children like she'd been once. What could be more important than that?

" _...Systems Alliance President Williams welcomed the new policy, confirming that his own granddaughter will soon become one of the first non-biotic humans to take up the opportunity…"_

Shepard's head was beginning to hurt. Perhaps the green drink had been a mistake.

" _...a spokesman for the batarian Hegemony declined to comment._ "

* * *

After stumbling out of the cab, Shepard made her way slowly through the plaza in front of her hotel. Even at this late hour, the building was lit up brightly. It looked like there was a party of some kind being held on the penthouse floor.

The front door to the hotel was locked. The side doors were locked too. This was unfortunate.

Shepard needed to get back inside. There had to be some other way of acces- _ah_. She'd spotted it. A low wall, to the side of the hotel building, obscuring a service entrance from the delicate eyes of the hotel's well-to-do guests. The wall was meant to keep people from accidentally wandering in, but it wasn't any serious obstacle to somebody who was determined to cross it. She didn't even need her biotics - just a small run up was enough.

Shepard pulled herself up and over the wall, and dropped down into an alleyway behind the hotel. As she'd suspected, there was a door here too - an entrance to the kitchen, for staff use only. She wasn't too surprised to discover that it was also locked. More promising was the fire escape on the back of the building; a series of metal staircases and balconies, open to the air and passing all the way up the building.

The lower ladder had been left in a raised position; accessible by anybody leaving the building but out of reach of any would-be intruders. Or out of reach of most, anyway. Biotics were rare among turians, and whoever was in charge of the hotel's security evidently hadn't considered them.

She tapped out a pattern in the air with her fingers, pulling at the end of ladder above her with her biotics. The ladder swung down, and she was able to jump up and grab hold of it, pulling herself upwards with her arms alone until she was able to get a foothold.

That got her up onto the fire escape. She tried the window of her room - at least, she thought it was her room. But it was locked tight as well. The other windows she tried were all locked as well. Eventually she found herself up on the roof. She was looking around and considering her next step when she heard raised voices from the penthouse suite below her. Batarian voices.

Her first thought was that hotel security must have found her. _I must have made more noise getting up here than I thought_. But something didn't add up. Batarians weren't completely unknown on Hierarchy worlds, especially on the outer fringes like this, but a hotel of this calibre would be very unlikely to hire batarian security guards. She tried to think of another reason that batarians might be wandering around the halls of a turian hotel at night. Nothing good came to mind.

She peered down through a skylight, crouching awkwardly to keep herself hidden from anybody below. There were several batarians, she saw - perhaps as many as twenty. They were all armed, all dressed in the same quasi-military uniform, and all being screamed at by a tall batarian she guessed had to be their leader.

"Who cares how he found me?" the batarian leader shouted. "He's a Spectre! They find things out, that's their job!"

 _No, I don't think he's with hotel security_ , thought Shepard.

"Now make sure all the animals are safely caged in their rooms, and make sure those rooms are locked from the outside," the batarian continued. "I'm going to need some bargaining chips when the turian arrives."

 _Wait, a turian Spectre_ , she thought. _Could it be…?_ Saren had become a Spectre within a year of her first meeting with him on Mindoir. One of the youngest turians ever accepted into the organisation, or so it was said.

Spectres were the Council's elite agents, the best of the best. If a Spectre was coming here, Shepard was sure that everything would be resolved soon.

Still, she couldn't just watch and do nothing and wait for Saren - _or whoever else_ , she reminded herself - to save the day..

The cooling vents that let hot air escape from the roof were too small for a turian to enter, but not too small for her. The building was old enough that whoever designed it had probably never heard of humans, let alone expected one to try breaking into their new hotel.

The vent got her down from the roof and into the penthouse floor. She dropped out of the vent as silently as should could. She tried the closest door. It was locked, fastened shut by a strange looking device. Tentatively, she pressed the only visible button, and the locking device fell apart, the door opening.

The volus who stood behind the now open door seemed worried.

" … ah, g-greetings, Earth-clan," he said. "I'm not … er, who ... what's going on?"

Shepard squatted on her heels in front of the volus so that their eyes were level. "Vol-clan," she said quietly, "My name is Corporal Shepard, I'm with the Hierarchy auxiliaries."

"Batarians with guns told us all to stay in our rooms," the volus interrupted anxiously. "Then they … locked the doors. But I don't..."

"I'm going to have ask you to evacuate the building, sir," Shepard said carefully. "There's a dangerous fugitive on the loose, and there's a risk he's done something to sabotage this building. There's a fire escape by the far window. Do you think you can get to it?"

"I … I think so." The volus took several deep breaths. "Thank you, Earth-clan."

She'd rescued perhaps a dozen more of the hotel guests in the same way when things started to go wrong. She was breaking the lock to another door when she heard a group of batarians coming up the stairs, voices raised.

"I'm telling you, Char, I saw it with my own eyes - a volus climbing down the fire escape."

"Well, did you shoot him?"

Shepard held her breath, a sick feeling in her stomach. _Did I just send that volus to his death?_ she wondered.

"No, I didn't shoot him," the first speaker grumbled. "Elaum said he wanted everybody kept alive."

 _Elaum_ , she thought, _That has to be the name of their leader_.

"Alive and trapped inside here, you idiot," the second speaker replied. "They're no good to us outside."

The two batarians were making a lot of noise - they clearly weren't trying to be stealthy. No doubt they didn't think they needed to be.

When Char and his companion reached this level, they would see the open doors and realise the hotel guests they thought were trapped had been released. They would raise the alarm, and she wouldn't be able to rescue the other guests. And Shepard had surrendered her pistol to the local authorities when she'd first arrived on the planet. She was unarmed.

She could feel her heart starting to beat faster, fight-or-flight instincts kicking in. _I am my thoughts_ ,she recited to herself. It was important not to panic. _When I think clearly, I act on the world. When my thoughts are unclear…_ She didn't have a weapon, but she did have her biotics. The batarians had the advantage of numbers, and she expected they were both armed, but she had the advantage of surprise. She had to hit them before they realised what was happening.

She steadied herself, waited, and then - as the first of the pair reached the top of the staircase - she acted. Focusing all her biotic energy, she kicked hard. The leading batarian was thrown backwards, head tilted backwards at an unnatural angle. If he - _it_ , she told herself, _it_ \- if it survived the initial attack, it didn't survive the landing. The batarian's body crashed into the floor below, skull-first, and lay still.

Fingers flexed, and with the last remnant of her strength she pushed at a power switch on the far side of the hallway, and the lights flickered out across the corridor. Suddenly the only illumination was the pale red light of Epyrus's dying sun. The remaining batarian froze, unsure of what to do, and Shepard leapt for him.

Shepard had never scored well in unarmed combat drills. She was too small, her instructors had sighed, too frail. Too human. She knew she had little chance against the batarian in a fair fight. But she didn't intend it to be fair.

She landed on the batarian's back before he realised what was happening. They struggled briefly at the top of the stairs, and then both went crashing down. Shepard stayed on top as best she could, screaming wordlessly and hitting her opponent as hard and fast as possible. They slid awkwardly down the stairs, the batarian taking the worst of the fall. When the batarian's head hit the stone stairs it rebounded with a satisfying crack.

By the time they skidded to a halt at the bottom of the stari well, Shepard had managed to get the batarian in a choke hold, one arm tight against the batarian's throat and squeezing as hard as she could. The batarian struggled for air, twisting back and forth violently. She held her arm tight against its neck and didn't let go. The batarian tried to pull away, to push up from the floor and break free. She kept her arm held tight against its neck. The batarian bucked and struggled, kicking out and writhing. She didn't let go.

Finally the batarian's body sagged, went limp, legs kicking feebly then falling still. She didn't dare let go at first, worried that the monster was only play-acting. After a few seconds, she jabbed the fingers of her free hand into the batarian's upper set of eyes, as hard as she could. No reaction. _It's done_ , she thought.

She lay on the floor for a minute, breathing raggedly, heart beating furiously. The two batarians lying next to her wasn't moving. She climbed to her feet, unsteadily, and smiled grimly when she saw what the first of them had dropped. Now she had a machine gun.

She had a chance to use it only a few minutes later.

She'd let a handful more of the trapped hotel guests out of their rooms, directing them up the stairs to the fire escape she'd spotted earlier. She was heading through the central shaft of the hotel to look for more guests in the building's other wing when she heard the sound of lift doors opening behind her.

She ducked behind a corner just in time. The lift door, when it opened, was full of batarians. At least a dozen, by her quick reckoning. They were all armed, and all grim faced. _I guess Char and his friend were supposed to check in by now_ , she thought. If the batarians got out here, they'd find their dead compatriots and realise that the hotel wasn't secure. She couldn't let that happen.

Without thinking much further, she brought up her stolen machine gun and opened fire. The weapon was heavier than anything she was used to, custom-built for a batarian and not for a human. And most of the batarians were shielded; kinetic barriers powered by portable suit generators worn at their belts. So she did less damage than she'd have hoped, but she still saw three or four batarians fall to the ground before her stolen weapon overheated, heat sinks popping out onto the hotel floor.

She ducked back behind the corner, dropping the now useless machine gun and trying to muster as much biotic energy as she could. She'd have enough for a barrier, at the very least. Not much more though, not yet.

Shouting curses, the surviving batarians poured from the lift, pointing and gesturing to one another. They turned towards the side corridor she'd shot at them from, and began to advance. Whether she ran or tried to hide, it was only a matter of time before the rounded the corner and saw her.

 _Well, you've got their attention_ , she told herself. _Now what?_

She didn't have time to answer that question.

One instant the hallway behind the batarians was empty, the next it was not.

The turian appeared from nowhere, one taloned hand reaching out to grab a batarian by the back of its neck. _A tactical cloak,_ Shepard realised. Experimental technology could bend and distort light, rendering the wearer effectively invisible to the naked eye. But the turian must have been incredibly light on his feet to have advanced so far towards the batarians without them hearing anything.

They knew he was here now. Still grasping his first target by the neck, the turian aimed his pistol and fired once, twice. Two batarian bodies fell to the floor. Shepard pushed herself back into the corner as the gunfire intensified, the batarians firing back wildly.

After a few minutes, an eerie silence descended.

"You can come out now, human," the turian said. She hadn't realised that he'd seen her.

She got to her feet slowly and looked up at an unfamiliar face. Unfamiliar and _decorated_ , white swirls over a dark brown face plate. _You're not Saren_. She didn't say it, but she certainly felt it. Of course, there had to be other turian Spectres. It had been stupid to hope. But she had done.

"Corporal Shepard of the _Havincaw_ , sir," she said, saluting as smartly as she could. "Are you the Spectre?"

He nodded. "I'm Nihlus Kryik," he said. "You were expecting me?"

She realised he still had his weapon drawn. It was rare for a human to work with batarians, though sadly not completely unheard of. Slaves, cultists, or just very, very desperate - you could never be sure that a human you'd met wasn't one of them. She'd faced similar dilemmas from the other side when storming batarian slaver bases in the Traverse with the rest of her squad. So the Spectre's caution made sense, though it stung a little not to be trusted.

"Overhead the batarians talking about you, sir," she said carefully. "They seemed to know you were coming."

"Looks like one of the embassy stuff let something slip," said Nihlus, baring his teeth. "We've been after Elaum Ran'perah for months. He's a pirate, a slave-dealer, and who knows what else. The batarian Hegemony have been protecting him, claiming that as cultural attaché in their Citadel embassy he has diplomatic immunity. But the Council finally persuaded them to give that up last week. Now, he's mine."

Shepard hadn't seen any sign of the batarian leader since she'd overheard him berating his guards earlier. She told Nihlus that Ran'perah had been in the penthouse earlier, and that he'd left his soldiers with orders to keep the hotel guests locked up.

"He's bolting," said Nihlus, shaking his head. "We have to catch him before he gets away."

He turned to the lift, look back over his shoulder.

"Shepard, was it?" he asked. "If you're with the auxiliaries, you must be a biotic. I could use your help."

She thought about protesting - the hotel was still full of trapped guests, her biotic displays earlier had taken a lot out of her, she wasn't sure how much she could help - but this was a Spectre. The best of the best. She doubted she'd ever get the chance to work with one again. She didn't hesitate for long.

When the lift doors opened again a minute later they were in the hotel lobby. The lobby was filled with dead batarians. A lot of dead batarians. Shepard turned to look at Nihlus, who answered before she could form a question.

"They had hoped to ambush me," he said. "They were disappointed."

* * *

They caught up with Ran'perah and what was left of his bodyguards at the plaza in front of the hotel, near a line of parked shuttles. They were only just in time - he'd almost gotten away.

Shepard splayed her fingers, and the two heavies standing next to Ran'perah flew backwards, crashing into the parked shuttles. Nihlus's heavy pistol fired once, and the batarian leader went down clutching his leg.

"Elaum Ran'perah." said Nihlus. "You've been accused of multiple counts of piracy, slave trafficking, murder and terrorism. We take these things seriously in Citadel space. The Hegemony have waived all your diplomatic rights, and the Council have ordered me to bring you in. Dead or alive."

The batarian snarled. "You're not taking me back to the Citadel, Spectre."

"Dead it is then," the turian agreed, lifting his pistol up.

"Not so fast, Spectre." spat the batarian. "I'm wearing a dead man's switch. If I die, the bombs in the hotel go off. We left enough explosives in the basement to bring the whole building down."

Grimacing in pain, but with a triumphant look lighting up all four of his eyes, Ran'parah pushed himself back up to his feet.

"Now," he said, "I'm going to call a shuttle, and when it arrives I'm going to get on board and fly away. And you're going to stand there and watch me leave."

"How do I know you're not bluffing?" asked Nihlus, still holding his weapon aimed at the batarian's head.

"I don't think he is, sir," said Shepard nervously. "I overheard him earlier, telling his men to keep the hotel guests locked up in their rooms. He called them 'bargaining chips'."

The three of them stood frozen in the plaza for a minute. Nihlus seemed reluctant to lower his gun, but Ran'perah seemed to sense he'd gained the upper hand. Shepard reviewed her options. _We could stun him, maybe,_ she thought. _Unless him being unconscious sets the bombs off as well. If my biotics were better, if I were better rested, I could trap him in a stasis field, maybe._ None of her ideas seemed promising. She hoped Nihlus had something in mind, or it looked like Ran'perah was going to walk.

"Well, turian?" asked Ran'perah, gloatingly. "What will you do? Save the hostages but let me escape, or shoot me and condemn them to death? Which of us is the _real_ terrori-"

A single shot rang out in the darkness.

"You are," said Nihlus coldly, looking down at Ran'perah's body. The batarian's face - what was left of it - wore a shocked expression. "But you're dead."

Before Shepard could speak, she felt the ground rumbling. A flash of red light behind them, and the sound of sirens wailing. The batarian hadn't been bluffing.

She looked at the Spectre in disbelief. "You let them die. All those people," she stammered.. "You killed…"

"It was the only rational decision." Nihlus's voice was infuriatingly calm. "If we'd let him go, he could have set the bombs off anyway. Likely he would have done - he was a sadist, a monster. And who knows how many lives he would have ruined before we caught him again?"

He shook his head decisively.

"No, better it ended here. A hard decision, perhaps, but this is why the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance programme exists. Any other Spectre would have done the same."

"I don't believe this is what Saren would have done," she said flatly. "I can't..."

"Saren?" said Nihlus, thoughtfully. "No. Saren wouldn't have hesitated like I did."

Before the police and news crews arrived, Shepard had time to wander away and be violently sick again. This time she didn't blame the dextro-poisoning. _Saren saved my life_ , she reminded herself. _I don't care what that other Spectre says_. _He's a hero._

After being interviewed and processed like the other survivors, Shepard let herself be escorted to an emergency shelter. The room she'd been staying in, like the rest of the hotel, had been reduced to ashes and rubble. The guests she'd helped escape were all okay, if shaken by their narrow escape, but the death toll was still in the hundreds. She didn't speak to Nihlus again.

Hours later, as she lay down to sleep, she told herself everything would seem better in the morning. But it was twilight when she woke up next, her head pounding, her skin flushed with sweat and tears still drying on her cheeks.

It was always twilight on Epyrus.

* * *

_CODEX: Personal History Summary, Shepard_

_Shepard was born on Mindoir, a human colony world, in 2154 CE (old-style human calendar), two years before the disappearance of the Charon mass relay. Little is known of her parents or their background, though it is most likely that they were farmers._

_Her biotic abilities first manifested in 2160 CE, when batarian slavers attacked Mindoir during what was later called the First Blitz. Shepard's family were killed in the assault, but Shepard was saved by a young turian officer, Saren Arterius, who was part of the joint response force led by Hierarchy forces and humanity's General Williams (the future President Williams)._

_The orphaned Shepard grew up in a turian-run biotic training camp, sponsored by [REDACTED]. In 2169 CE, aged fifteen, Shepard was one of the first human biotics to join the Hierarchy military forces as an auxiliary. For six years, only biotics would be permitted to join the auxiliaries, though this restriction was relaxed in 2175. In 2173, Shepard received the first of several commendations, when her quick thinking and biotic talent allowed her unit to survive an attack by a thresher maw with only a single casualty. In 2175, Shepard's assistance was formally recognised by the turian Spectre Nihlus Kyrik, after [REDACTED]. In 2176, Shepard was honoured again for her role in the attack on batarian forces on Torfan, during the final battles of the Second Blitz._

_In 2180 CE, Shepard was injured on Eden Prime, as part of a Council-led mission investigating [REDACTED]. Fortunately her injuries proved not to be life threatening. Shepard would go on to [REDACTED], playing a crucial role in the events that would later be [REDACTED]._

_[PUBLIC CODEX ENTRY ENDS / THE REMAINDER OF THIS ENTRY IS CLASSIFIED AND NOT FOR PUBLIC USE]_


	6. Spectres 5

Garrus hated hospitals. He hated the featureless corridors; the bland and sterile architecture. He hated the unchanging waiting rooms, the faint odour of disinfectant which was never quite enough to mask the smell of fear. The smell of people trying - and failing - to kid themselves that their loved ones would somehow find a way to beat the odds. He hated the feeling of powerlessness that he felt himself as soon as he crossed the threshold. Across the galaxy, all hospitals seemed to be alike: from the grandest medical complex on Palaven to the dingiest trader ship med-bay. Layers of bureaucracy and boredom built over a foundation of blood and misery and pain.

The last time he'd visited a hospital, he'd told himself that that was it. No more. He'd known he was lying to himself, even then - that if his mother got sick, or his sister, he'd be right back in one of those dreadful grey waiting rooms like all the others. But if he could avoid it, he'd thought, if it was anybody other than his family, then he'd do them just as much good somewhere else.

And yet here he was, sitting outside a med-bay on a strange ship, waiting for a human to wake up. _This wasn't quite how they advertised the glamorous life of a Spectre,_ he thought to himself.

He'd always thought of humans as soft, unthreatening. Defenceless, with their disturbingly smooth unplated skin and their lack of carapace. Small - shorter than any turian adult he knew - and fragile, with their strange, too-large eyes and far more digits on their hands than looked natural.

He hadn't made up his mind about this human yet. She seemed different to the others. Not simply because she was a biotic, he thought, but because of something else, something harder to pin down. She didn't act like the other humans he'd spoken to before.

He shouldn't have been surprised. He'd reread her records as soon as he'd known which ship he'd be docking with. His old mentor in the Spectres had had something to add to those records as well. And he hadn't been surprised, he thought, not really. But he had been an impressed.

Garrus had begun pacing up and down outside the med-bay after an hour or so, unable to sit still on the narrow benches. And it was at least another hour after that before the door finally slid open.

The doctor - an old turian who looked as tired as Garrus felt - beckoned him over.

"She's woken up," the doctor said, "And seems to be functioning. Captain wanted to see her when she was up, but I can give you twenty minutes".

Garrus nodded, gratefully. The doctor shook his head. "You can ask her what happened, if you like," he called over his shoulder as he stalked off to find the captain. "I'd be lying if I said I knew."

Inside, Shepard was awake, dressed and sitting upright. Garrus didn't know much about humans, but to his untrained eyes she looked to be in a bad way, 'functioning' or not. Her skin was paler than he'd seen it before, and her eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. The mane of dark protein filaments that extruded from her skull - _hair_ , he reminded himself, _they call it hair_ \- looked frayed and tangled. He wondered, not for the first time, why she didn't keep it short like the other humans he knew. He wondered if it would be rude to ask.

All the same she was aware enough to look up as the door slide shut behind him.

"Vakarian … you're okay?" Her voice was faint. Not simply soft, as it had been earlier, but weak, hoarse.

He nodded. "The artefact … " he shrugged, "Whatever it was. It only seemed to affect you, after .." he trailed off.

After Shepard had pushed him aside, she'd seem to become entranced by the beacon in the same way that he had been moments earlier. As he'd watched helplessly, she'd been lifted up by the mass effect fields it was generating, hanging in the air before it for several seconds. Then the artefact had seemed to short-circuit, somehow, and they'd both fallen to the ground. She'd been unconscious ever since.

"We're back on the ship", she said slowly, looking around the medical bay. "Is Vasir on board?"

"No," he said. "Not anymore anyway."

Shepard looked puzzled.

"She says she found new information on Cerberus while she was searching their base on Eden Prime," Garrus explained. "Asked us if we could take her as far as Dobrovolaski on our way back to the Citadel. We made the drop-off about twelve hours ago."

"Twelve hours…" she echoed, "Just how long have I been out?"

"You've been unconscious for about forty-seven hours," he said.

"Two days.." her eyes widened.

"What do you remember?" he asked, as gently as possible.

He couldn't remember much of his experience with the beacon himself. He'd seen it, hovering in the air, and had half-heard, half-felt something calling out to him. The next thing he could remember, he'd been sprawling on the floor, Shepard back in the room with him. Only examining the grainy footage captured by their helmet cameras later had made it clear what must have happened. But none of that told him what he had actually experienced.

"I saw … something." she frowned. "A vision, maybe ... a nightmare. I'm still trying to make sense of it."

The human fell silent, her eyes seeming to focus on something distant that only she could see. Garrus was wondering whether he should say something when she shook her head, and cleared her throat.

"You said we're heading for the Citadel?" she asked. She seemed keen to change the subject. Garrus couldn't blame her.

"Well, I am," he said. "I need to let the Council know what happened to the missing archaeologists. And with any luck, we should be able to find a specialist on the Citadel who can make sure you're okay. There are a lot of human doctors on the Citadel."

The System Alliance didn't have an embassy on the Citadel, of course, but it did have a surprisingly large human population. Mostly exiles, or political outcasts - people not happy with humanity's Protectorate status in the Hierarchy. Some refugees, some people just desperate to get off their home worlds and willing to go wherever they might find a new start. But a group that big needed doctors and medical supplies.

"That's actually why I wanted to see you," he said carefully. "I was hoping you'd be willing to speak to the Council about … whatever it is you saw." _If they'll want to listen,_ he finished to himself. There was no guarantee of that, of course.

"I…" she paused. "If you think it will help…"

"I do", he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. "If Cerberus have found something dangerous, something they could hurt the Hierarchy with, then the Council will want to know. There's more to this than humouring an eccentric rich volus now."

"What do we know about Cerberus?" she asked, curiously.

"Not enough," he said. He brought up a hand to his visor, flicking open the files he'd been reviewing off and on for the past two days.

"Best we can tell, they've been around for about twenty years. They started posting manifestos and threats on the extranet shortly after your worlds voted to become a Protectorate. The usual anti-Hierarchy propaganda, nothing that stood out. They claimed responsibility for a small number of isolated attacks on Hierarchy bases a couple of years later, then they seem to fall of the radar a bit."

"We think they might have been involved with the Terra Nova project. Providing it with funding behind the scenes, or with personnel, maybe. Timing fits, anyway, and it could explain their later interest in Prothean artefacts and ruins."

"Four years ago they tried to assassinate General Williams," he said. "Wait, should that be President Williams? Ex-President Williams? I'm sorry, I'm not sure what the human protocol is."

Turian protocol was simpler, he reflected. The Hierarchy lacked the artificial distinction between civilian and military leadership which other species seemed to insist upon.

"That was on Dobrovolski, funnily enough." He paused, reflecting. If that was why Vasir had been so interested to visit that world, she hadn't said. But what else was there on that planet? _Of course, we only have Vasir's word that she was interested in Dobrovolski_ , he thought. Maybe she'd just jumped onto a different ship heading off-world as soon as the _Resolute_ had left orbit. He kept reading.

"Only one casualty - General Williams' granddaughter. She'd just finished her training to become an auxiliary, was back on leave to visit her family before shipping out." He wondered, idly, if that had been the point - maybe the General's granddaughter had been the real target. As best as he could understand, it had been something of a public relations coup for the General's faction that one of his own family had been so quick to sign up as an auxiliary once the restrictions on non-biotics had been dropped. But it didn't seem to make sense to target her.

Many people believed that the attack, coming so soon before the start of the Second Blitz, had been to help destabilise the Systems Alliance's leadership before the Hegemony's assault. He wasn't sure he was convinced though. Cerberus had never shown any sign of working with batarians before or since. Something didn't add up.

It was the sort of mystery his father would have been fascinated by, he suspected. It was the sort of mystery he was prepared to leave unsolved. Forcing the matter from his mind, Garrus turned his attention to the final entry displayed on his visor.

"Oh, yes, and their leader calls himself 'The Illusive Man'." he snorted. "Seems a bit presumptive to give yourself a title like that. It's not entirely an empty boast though - as far as I can tell, nobody's been able to find out anything more about him than that. Not the Systems Alliance, not the Hierarchy's investigators, not Citadel Security…"

"And not the Spectres?" she finished for him.

"Not yet," he said. "Vasir seems to think she has a lead now, though."

"You don't trust Vasir." she said, frowning. "I was asking you why, earlier, before …"

He thought about evading the question, decided against it.

"Spectres operate almost completely independently from the Council," he said. "Some of them do things that the Council would rather not find out about. Some do things that they'd rather the Council not find out about."

She frowned at that - and he was struck again by how alien human facial responses were, how alien human faces were - but she seemed to decide against responding.

"Back when I was in training, my mentor warned me that a handful of Spectres were rumoured to be leaking classified information to the Shadow Broker. Vasir was one of the Spectres he mentioned by name."

"The Shadow Broker?" she asked.

"He's a …" Garrus paused, considered his words carefully. "We don't know much about the Shadow Broker either. We don't know his real name or his background. He's a black market information broker, at least primarily. Buys or steals secrets, any secrets worth keeping hidden. Scientific breakthroughs by reclusive salarian scholars; the winners and losers of backroom political battles between the rulers of the Asari Republics; the identities of the next batch of victims of the Overseer's show trials … anything. At least, anything that somebody else might pay money to find out. Beyond that, he has links to organised crime, red sand trading, people smuggling. The Broker owns a private army, or so the rumours say, out somewhere beyond the reach of Citadel Security."

He paused. "The Shadow Broker's been around for almost a hundred years though," he added, as dryly as possible. "So we can be pretty sure he's not the Illusive Man."

Shepard rolled her eyes slightly at that. _Good enough_ , he thought, oddly pleased to have got any reaction at all.

His twenty minutes were almost up. Garrus made his excuses, warned Shepard that the Captain would be arriving soon, and slipped out of the med-bay as quickly as he could. He still hated hospitals.

He'd already begun drafting extranet messages to his old mentor; he'd have to finish them before they reached the final relay jump to the Citadel. The older turian had warned him that the Council's idea of a simple mission might turn out to be anything but simple. He'd want to know that he was right; and that the human he'd been impressed by years ago was involved in this as well.

 _You were right, Nihlus_ , he thought. _This mission was a lot more complicated than the Council thought it would be_.

* * *

Garrus hadn't realised how hungry he'd become while waiting outside the med-bay until a few minutes after he left. So rather than heading back up to his quarters, as he'd been planning, he changed direction and headed towards the mess hall.

He heard a pair of voices coming from the hall even before he entered: the voice of a human female interrupted now and then by the deeper, more resonant tones of a male turian.

The human he'd heard was sitting at a table with a turian he didn't recognise. He recognised the human, vaguely - she'd been one of the four Shepard had introduced him to in the mess hall before they when planetside. It wasn't that he couldn't tell individual humans apart - despite the jokes, they really didn't all look the same, despite their startling lack of plates or a carapace. It was just hard to put the right name to the right face sometimes.

The pair's attention was dominated by a wooden board set up between them on the middle of the table, strewn with a dozen or so carved figurines, painted alternately black and white. The turian was staring at it closely, while the human pointed and talked.

"...which is the point," she was saying. "Any legal move you can make will worsen your position, but you're obliged to do something. _Zugzwang_. If you could just pass, you'd be fine. But you can't pass. And so I win."

At this, she sat back, smiling, then startled to attention when she saw Garrus watching.

"Oh, sorry sir," she said. "We didn't see you come in. I'm Sam Traynor, I mean, Specialist Traynor. Sir. We met earlier, but I wasn't sure-"

"I remember you, Traynor" he said, grateful to have a name to put to the face.

"And this is Tarquin Victus. Navigation officer."

Victus. That was a well-known name in the Hierarchy these days. General Adrien Victus had risen to prominence in the Hierarchy following a string of brilliant victories against the batarians during the Second Blitz. Garrus wondered if the young turian was a relative. If so, he didn't envy him. That would be a difficult name to live up to. And Garrus knew something about living up to famous names. Or trying to.

"Sir," the younger turian said guardedly.

Garrus looked at the table again.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asked curiously.

"Old human game, sir," said Traynor.

Garrus could well believe it. The wooden pieces looked ancient, chipped and weathered by years of use. He' was surprised that there was anything that old on the colony worlds, and said as much to Traynor.

"This set's from Earth," she said proudly. "A genuine antique. It was my grandmother's."

"You play a lot of this game, Traynor?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." she said. "Well, it's that or trying eating the food, so…"

Garrus had stayed on asari worlds before, and been forced to survive on emergency dextro-rations. He doubted that the human's levo equivalents were much better. _Though surely they can't be any worse_ , he told himself. He was about to answer when he noticed, at the periphery of his vision, another turian enter the mess hall.

It was the young gunnery officer he'd quarrelled with earlier, before the mission. They'd never met before, but he'd immediately recognised the type. A young hothead with a chip on his shoulder, convinced he knew better than his superior officers and yet to learn the difference between plain-speaking and rudeness. _Well,_ he thought to himself, _that doesn't sound familiar at all, does it Garrus?_ In any event, Lantar Sidonis was just about the last person on the ship he wanted to speak to right now. _Well,_ he thought, _Perhaps the second to last person_.

"So," said Traynor brightly, breaking the sudden awkward silence. "I hear that the Commander's awake?"

"Yes, she's talking to your Captain now." said Garrus, still looking warily at the gunnery officer.

"Thank you for bringing her back after … well, whatever it was that happened to her," she said. "She means a lot to the humans on this crew."

"She means a lot to all the crew," corrected Sidonis, striding up to their table. "And she wouldn't be in the med-bay at all if it was for him, Traynor. Let's not pretend otherwise."

Sidonis wore a challenging look on his face as he turned to look directly at Garrus The gunnery officer was clearly looking to start a fight..

Garrus could have hit him, he thought. _It would probably do the young idiot some good, too._ But it wouldn't have been appropriate. Spectres were supposed to exemplify the best of intelligent life in Citadel space. Not to lash out angrily whenever somebody dared to question them. Instead, he made his excuses to Tarquin and Traynor and left the mess hall as quickly as he could.

* * *

His quarters were two floors above the mess hall, accessible by a short walk to the lift at either end. So it was sheer bad luck that after leaving the lift he almost walked into a human crew member who must have been waiting to head down herself. He was about to apologise when he recognised her face. _Maybe this wasn't just bad luck_ , he thought uneasily.

He didn't have any trouble putting a name to this human face. It was the dead soldier's mate. Jennifer Nicollier. He hadn't seen or spoken to her since they'd returned to the ship.

"Vakarian," she breathed. "I was wondering when you'd quit hiding in the med-bay."

"Look, Nicollier" he said awkwardly, "I'm ..."

He trailed off. What exactly was there to say?

"You're … what?" she demanded, staring up at him "You're sorry? You turn up on my ship, drag us all out on some pointless treasure hunt, you get my-" - she choked back tears - "-my … friend killed, you get the Commander injured, and you're _sorry_?"

He felt the impact of the bulkhead slamming into his back even before he realised what was happening. Nicollier's eyes were suddenly filled with blue light, and he was pinned two feet above the corridor floor, legs twitching uselessly.

"'Sorry' is for when you spill somebody's drink at the bar," she snapped, arcs of blue energy sparking from her fingers, "'Sorry' is for when you can't help somebody with directions. I think we're a bit beyond 'sorry'."

She slammed him into the bulkhead again, harder this time.

"Richard was so excited to meet a Spectre," she said. "He was thrilled to be going on a mission with one. He ... he always saw the best in everyone. But what are you, really? Just another turian with a fancy title."

She slammed him into the bulkhead once again for emphasis. She'd started off with her voice raised, almost shouting at him, but her voice had fallen quieter and quieter until now she was almost whispering.

"You know, Vakarian," she said. "Right now, with the Commander in the med-bay? I think I'm the most dangerous thing on the ship."

He wasn't inclined to argue, however soft and fragile he might have thought must humans were.

"You think you could stop me, Spectre?" she asked. "If I actually wanted to hurt you?"

"If you're not trying to hurt me, you could try to stop throwing me into parts of the ship," he suggested. It came out as a more of a wheeze than he'd have liked.

"No!" she shouted. "You don't get to make a joke out of this. You don't get to banter. Not today."

"Just tell me," she said, "Was it worth it?"

"I …" he paused, mandibles twitching slightly, as he tried to consider his options. _Lure her in a bit closer and try to take her down without breaking anything?_ he thought _And hope she doesn't break anything of mine, I guess._

"I don't know." he said simply. It wasn't perhaps the wisest thing to say, but it was the truth. The Council would probably think the death of a single human a small price to pay to deny Cerberus access to Prothean technology, whatever it was it actually did. But it was never a choice he had to make before.

"Well, that's just wonderful." she breathed.

It had definitely not been the wisest thing to say.

"Do you know how much force it takes to tear off a turian's face plate?" she asked, her voice now almost eerily calm. "Because honestly, I have no idea. Do you want to find out ... together?"

They stayed there, frozen, for a second or two longer. Nicollier didn't say anything - just stared at him intently. Garrus reviewed his options for taking her down. It didn't take long, and none of them were encouraging. He was about to try something, when suddenly the lights cut out and the force pushing him against the bulkhead vanished. He crashed back down onto the floor, legs buckling under him.

"I could destroy you, Spectre." Nicollier said flatly, looking down at him. "It would be easy. But the Commander, she wouldn't approve. So just .. just get out of here. And don't ever apologise to me again."

He staggered back up, opened his mouth, thought better of it, and walked away in silence. He thought he could feel the eyes on his back, staring at him, until he turned the corner and let himself relax.

 _Oh, great job, Garrus_ , he thought to himself. _Running away from a grieving female half your size. Very heroic. That's definitely a highlight for the Spectre Archives._

Minutes later, when he ran into the smirking gunnery officer again, it was incredibly cathartic to punch him in the face.

* * *

A few hours later, Garrus stood alone in the port observation bay. They were still some distance away from the relay linking them to the Serpent Nebula and the Citadel station, but they were getting close enough that he was starting to get anxious. He had to arrange a meeting with the Council, with Kumun Shol, to discuss what had happened on Eden Prime and what they could do next. He had

He checked his visor again.

Still no word from Nihlus, or from any other Spectre. He had a couple of new messages from his sister Solona though. She'd been quarrelling with their mother again, he saw. He wasn't sure he wanted to get involved in that any more than he had to.

Garrus was still struggling over composing a suitable diplomatic reply when the door buzzed open and Shepard walked into the room.

"Vakarian," she said, nodding a greeting.

"Shepard," he said. "Shouldn't you still be in the med-bay?"

She grimaced slightly, shrugged her shoulders.

"Doc said I should be okay as long as I take it easy for a while," she said. "I just wanted to take a walk before we reach the Citadel. Clear my head. Felt like I'd been waiting in that med-bay for weeks."

He sympathised. Waiting outside had been bad enough.

"I spoke to Komarov," she said. "She seemed…"

The Commander shook her head, looked down.

"She's upset," she said. "Obviously. But she'll deal with it. It's hard, losing somebody like that. Especially the first time."

She walked past Garrus, towards the observation windows. She pressed her face up towards the screen and stared out into space.

"I've been thinking about Cerberus again," she said. "The woman I chased … before she escaped, she said something about a threat, something the Council weren't aware of. Waiting in the darkness. What if ..."

The human trailed off, staring out of the observation windows. Her eyes seemed to be fixed on something that only she could see.

"I thought it was nonsense," she said, "Just the ramblings of a fanatic. And maybe that's all it was. Maybe. But the vision I saw … Could she have used the artefact as well?"

 _Was it possible?_ Garrus wondered. The Cerberus agent had been in the same room as the artefact when they first stumbled upon her. She might well have been the one to activate it in the first place. And even assuming that it had knocked her out in the same way it had Shepard … enough time had passed between the volus archaeological team going missing and their arrival on Eden Prime for the Cerberus agent to have recovered on her own. _Maybe_.

He wondered what had prompted this train of thought.

"Do you remember more of what happened now?" he asked.

Shepard shook her head, her back to Garrus, still staring out into the distance.

"It was a warning, I think," she said. "A warning about something that happened a long time ago. Of war, destruction, death. On a scale we can barely comprehend."

Garrus stared over the Commander's shoulder at the reflection of her face on the observation window. Her face still seemed much paler than it had before Eden Prime.

"You're sure you've never heard of Kumun Shol?" Garrus said, as lightly as he could. The volus trader was sufficiently rich that the Council tended to humour his ramblings, in public at least. But nobody thought his talk of machine-devils or the dire warnings he'd received from ancient energy beings had any basis in reality. "That sounds like the sort of thing he says whenever he communicates with the Council."

The human turned around to look back at him over her shoulder.

"Maybe it's time the Council started taking him more seriously, then", she said.

She turned away from him again, looking back out of the observation window in the direction of the mass relay the _Resolute_ was still speeding towards.

"Something's out there, Vakarian," she said softly, staring out at the darkness between the stars. "Something old, something dangerous. Something nobody in the Hierarchy is prepared for. And it's waking up."


	7. Elevator Music

Shepard had visited the Citadel before, but they'd been brief, fleeting excursions during shore leave. She'd seen the docks and the bars and had a few glimpses of the darker corners of the Wards where the resident human population crowded in against each other. But she'd never set foot on the Presiduum before, much less travelled to the upper chambers of the Citadel Tower itself.

The Citadel drifted in the dark clouds of the Serpent Nebula. The greatest single surviving relic of the Protheans, the station's rediscovery by the asari and the salarians three thousand years ago - at almost the same time that the separatist turian colonies were launching the first strikes of what would become the Unification Wars, and while her own ancestors were still scavenging for food in the mud and dirt of their lost homeworld - had marked the beginning of the Council Age, the foundation of a political and economic union that now spanned more than half the galaxy.

The Citadel was currently home to fourteen million people: asari, turians, salarians, volus, elcor and dozens of other species. Ambassadors, dignitaries, investors, refugees, mercenaries, scientists, security forces and traders. Fourteen million was more than the population of most of the human worlds, more people than she could really imagine in one place.

She still wasn't entirely sure what she was doing here, among the ornate gardens and balconies of the Citadel Council's audience chamber.

Vakarian had asked her to accompany him as he reported back to the Council and to Kumun Shol on the fate of the archaeologists on Eden Prime. He'd assured her that the Council would want to know about the ancient device the two of them had uncovered. And about what she'd experienced after she'd touched it; about the warning that she was sure it had passed on to her. She'd found it difficult to believe they'd take it seriously. She wasn't sure she would, in their position.

They'd both been silent as the elevator bore them up. The only sound she'd heard for several minutes was the distant tinny echoes of music playing through the elevator's speaker systems. _Maybe it sounds better to an asari_ , she'd thought to herself.

She'd stayed silent so far, except for confirming her name and rank when asked. She felt that the Council's attention was mostly on Vakarian, not her. For now, at least. She still wasn't sure what she was going to say when they started to question her. _If they bother asking me anything_ , she thought.

This was a closed session; no spectators watching from the surrounding terraces. She was grateful for that, at least.

But the three Council members were all present, as was a fourth figure who had identified himself as Din Korlack, volus ambassador to the Citadel. Not present physically, but also in attendance, was the volus billionaire at the centre of it all: Kumun Shol, projected up onto the platform as a larger than life hologram. As they'd walked up to the platform where the Council waited, Vakarian had explained quietly that in recent years Kumun Shol rarely if ever left Klencory, the planet on which he claimed to have first received a message from the species he called the Precursors.

Any human representatives from Eden Prime were conspicuous by their absence. Shepard couldn't decide if it was more likely that they'd turned down an invitation, or if the Council had simply not bothered to offer them one.

Sparatus was the current turian representative on the Council; Vakarian had tried reminding her of the names of the other two Councillors as they'd made their way up to the central stand, but she couldn't remember them now. Like most turians sent to represent the Hierarchy on the Council, Sparatus had had a credible though unspectacular military career prior to his appointment. The Primarchs wanted their Council representatives competent, of course, but they didn't see any point in wasting talent that could be put to better use elsewhere in the Hierarchy.

Shepard wasn't sure how the asari and salarians selected their representatives on the Council. The dalatrasses were the real power on Sur'Kesh, but rarely if ever appeared on the Citadel. As far as she knew the salaran Council members were all male. Probably it all came down to family feuds and nepotism - most things the salarians were involved in tended to after a while. As for the asari, well … it was a truism that one couldn't begin to understand the internal machinations of the Republics until well into your fifth century. A truism which had originated among the asari, but one which most of the shorter lived species agreed with.

The Council members were quiet while Vakarian began to run through a terse summary of the events on Eden Prime, starting with his arrival on the _Resolute_ a few days ago. Like her, Vakarian seemed a little over-awed by his surroundings, but he spoke clearly and kept his focus well.

She heard a shocked murmur from Din Korlack when Vakarian recounted the discovery of the murdered archaeologists, but it was only a few minutes later, when Vakarian described their encounter with Tela Vasir, that the volus ambassador actually spoke out loud.

"What was Vasir doing on Eden Prime?" he demanded, "This wasn't her mission."

Sparatus didn't say anything, but Shepard could tell he was irritated by the interruption. Korlack was his ally, so he wouldn't say anything, but the other Councillors didn't have the same constraints.

"The volus don't have a seat on the Council yet, ambassador," the salaran said sharply. "Vasir's actions are not up for discussion."

It was the asari Councillor, of course, who opted for a placating tone.

"Tela Vasir has been investigating Cerberus activities, on my request," she said. "I'm sure the relevant authorities were aware of her presence."

Shepard wasn't so sure, herself, that the human government on Eden Prime had had any idea. Though perhaps the Council didn't consider the human governments to be relevant.

"Please, Vakarian," the asari said, waving for the Spectre to continue his report.

After a quick description of their exploration of the Cerberus base, Vakarian began to describe the artefact they'd discovered. The Councillors turned to look at Shepard for this first time as the turian described how the artefact had reacted to their presence and the effect it had had on her. She tried her best to meet their stares without flinching.

Kumun Shol had been so silent up to this point that Shepard had almost forgot he was present. But at this point he cut in enthusiastically, his holographic figure flickering as he waved his arms to emphasise his words.

"Just like Klencory … tombs. This could be … another message, from … the Precursors,"

It was hard to be sure which of the pauses were due to problems with the signal, and which were due to Shol's breathing apparatus struggling to keep up with his excitement.

"Ah, yes, the Precursors," Sparatus said wearily, "The immortal race of incorporeal beings allegedly protecting organic life since the dawn of time. We are familiar with this theory."

"Not just … theory," insisted Shol, his hologram flickering more rapidly than ever. "... proof … at last …"

Shepard let the volus's words fade into the background, grateful for the distraction and happy that she was no longer the object of the Council's attention.

She really didn't feel comfortable up here. Too high up, too exposed. Closed session or not, she felt like she was being watched. The lights in the hall seemed too bright, the voices of the Council too loud. And was it her imagination, or was the viewing platform she and Vakarian were stood on beginning to sway?

This was not a safe place. She had to get somewhere more secure. She had to … _no_. She shook her head. This wasn't her fear. The voice she could hear in her head was not her own. And it sounded terrified, frightened almost beyond reason.

_Not safe. Seek refuge. Can not be stopped. All is lost._

The voice echoed in her head, growing painfully louder with each repetition.

"Vakarian," she said, slowly, aware of her vision growing darker even as she spoke, "I think-"

_Can not be stopped._

* * *

"How are you feeling, Commander?"

Opening her eyes again hurt. The lights seemed too bright and her vision swam for a few seconds before things shifted into focus. She was lying on a flat, hard bed in an unfamiliar room. It looked like a medical centre of some kind, though the technology was at least ten years behind anything she'd seen recently. The equipment looked old and worn, the walls looked drab and grey.

 _The Wards, then_ , she guessed. The human population of the Citadel tended to congregate out on the lower levels of the Citadel, far from the gardens and lakes of the Presiduum.

She didn't recognise either of the women standing in front of her. One looked to be late middle-aged; perhaps one of the generation who still remembered Earth. The other was younger - her own age, she guessed, or close to it, though her face was undecorated. Neither of the women were dressed in the uniform of the Hierarchy. She fought down a sudden memory of panic. _I am my thoughts_. Why was she here? What had happened in the Citadel tower?

"It's okay, Shepard."

She recognised this speaker. It was Vakarian. The Spectre. He looked uncomfortable. She forced herself to calm down. The strange presence in her mind was quieter now. Much quieter. Maybe she'd only imagined it. _Maybe_. She didn't know if that was any better.

"What … happened?" she said, finally.

"You had some sort of attack in the Council chambers, I'm told." the older woman said. Her voice was calm, professional. A doctor? "They say you started shouting something in a language that none of the Council's translators could interpret. Which, as I'm sure you realise, shouldn't be possible."

"How long was I out?" she asked, dreading the answer. _Not days again, surely?_

"Only a few hours, this time," Vakarian replied.

"This time?" the younger woman asked, turning back to look at Vakarian curiously. "This has happened before?"

Shepard shook her head, frowned. "Not exactly this, but … yeah. Something."

"Well," said the older woman, "Medically you seem to be completely fine. Your brain does show slightly unusual activity - we detected some abnormal beta wave patterns. But nothing that you should be alarmed about."

 _So they are doctors, then_ , she thought. She hadn't met many human doctors before.

"Thank you," she said, suddenly self-conscious. "I'm sorry, I don't know your names."

"It's all right, Commander," the older woman. "You're not the first patient to need treatment before we've been properly introduced, and i'm sure you won't be the last. I'm Doctor Chakwas - Karin, if you prefer -and my colleague here is Doctor Michel,"

"Chloe," the younger woman said, holding out a hand. Shepard paused for half a second before reaching out and shaking it - it wasn't a completely unfamiliar ritual, just not something she was used to.

"How many medical centres for humans are there on the Citadel?" Shepard asked, curiously. "Surely they're not all-" She wasn't how to finish that sentence.

"I don't think anybody knows the answer to that question, Commander," Chakwas answered. "There's no central organisation, not formally."

"We're not the biggest, or the richest, but we're one of the oldest," said the younger doctor. "Doctor Chakwas has been working here for almost two decades now. She moved here a few months after First Contact. Started helping the refugees who fled here after the batarians attacked, then organised other doctors, started arranging logistics … everything grew from there. "

"That sounds like a lot of work," Shepard said said. It did.

"We do what we can, Commander," Chakwas said seriously. "There are more humans on this station than anybody has ever counted. They need medical supplies, advice, emergency treatment … they need more than any of us can give them."

"Not what you were expecting when you started training to be a doctor?" Shepard asked.

"It's certainly not what I dreamed of when I was a young girl on Mars," Chakwas said ruefully. "I'd had fantasies of serving as ship's doctor on an Alliance vessel, travelling between the stars, seeking out alien life and travelling far from home. The usual foolishness, best left to a more innocent age."

She looked around herself, gesturing at the badly painted walls and the Wards that lay beyond them.

"I didn't expect this," she said quietly. "None of us did, back then. But we do what we can."

"I grew up here, myself," said Michel, after a short pause. "My parents were miners, on Dobrovolski, before … well. All of this. Doctor Chakwas helped my family when they arrived, later on I volunteered here before getting my training on Horizon. After qualifying, coming back to here just felt like the only right thing to do."

Shepard thought about growing up somewhere like this: chaotic, unstructured, living in the gaps left by the asari and the salarians. _If my family had survived, would we have come here?_ she wondered. She didn't know. She hoped not - she thought her family would have stayed on Mindoir, helping to rebuild rather than running away. But after all this time, she couldn't be sure. Not really. Just the thought made her feel slightly sick.

"I've just got a message from Din Korlack," said Vakarian quietly. Without her realising, he'd moved up close enough to whisper to her without either of the other humans overhearing. "He wants to meet us at the embassy. If you're feeling all right…?"

She wasn't all right. Not yet. She would have noticed him approaching before he'd spoken, if she had been. But she nodded, wordlessly, thanked the doctors again, and then they headed out. _The sooner we're out of the Wards, the better._

* * *

The volus embassy was located back up on the Presiduum, of course. Vakarian looked oddly thoughtful as they rode the elevator up. Shepard could hear the same distant echoing tune she'd heard on the ride up to the Citadel tower.

 _If they keep playing that damn music I think I'm going to go crazy,_ she thought to herself. She realised that Vakarian was looking at her, waiting for a response to something he'd said which she'd missed. She shook her head to clear it, apologised and asked him to repeat himself.

"I said, talking to the Council made me start thinking about the dig site again," he said patiently.

She'd thought about the dig site herself, as she lay in the _Resolute_ 's medical bay. She'd dreamt about the thunder and the darkness, and Jenkins falling to the ground. She'd kept asking herself what she should have done differently. But she didn't think that was what Vakarian meant.

"Those archaeologists we found," he said. "We could tell they'd been killed recently. But the dig site fell out of contact with the Citadel days ago. So what happened in the intervening time? Were they prisoners? Did they try to escape?"

She'd wondered much the same thing at the time, but they'd soon had other things to worry about. The timing just didn't seem to make sense, unless-

"It's as if Cerberus knew we were coming," the Spectre said. "As if they knew when we'd be coming. But until I boarded your ship, only Kumun Shol and the Council themselves should have known where I was headed."

Shepard could see where this was going now.

"There aren't any traitors on my ship, sir," she said flatly, forcing down her initial angry reaction. "Nobody with Cerberus sympathies would get past the screening tests. And my crew are good people. If somebody told Cerberus that the Council were sending help, it wasn't anybody on the _Resolute_. "

Vakarian nodded slowly, a doubtful look on his face. She could tell he wasn't convinced, but right now she didn't particularly care. The human crew had fought hard for their places in the auxiliaries, all of them. They didn't deserve to be judged behind their backs like this.

They didn't say anything else until the elevator doors opened up at the Presiduum level.

Din Korlack, the volus ambassador, came out to meet them when they arrived. Before they'd landed, Vakarian had told her that Korlack had been pushing hard in the past decade for the volus to finally get the seat on the Council they'd been denied for most of the past three thousand years. _The Council trust the volus to run their banking systems, but because they don't have any real military strength, they don't get to sit at the big table_.

It was a bit more complicated than that, to be fair. In theory, at least, the Hierarchy would be glad for the volus to join the Council, the asari and the salarians less so. Most likely, Vakarian had said, the volus would only be offered a seat at the same time as a seat was offered to one of the asari or salarians' traditional allies. The elcor, most likely. But neither the elcor nor the volus were truly likely to join any time soon, despite Din Korlack's persistence. It was likely the volus was well aware of this himself, but he kept trying all the same. Shepard decided that she admired the ambassador's stubborn streak.

"Greetings Spectre," he rasped, turning to Vakarian first. "Thank you for coming back to meet with us. It was ... unfortunate that our earlier meeting ended the way it did. "

The ambassador looked up at her. Hard as it was to read volus's expressions through their suits, Shepard thought he seemed concerned. _Whatever I did on the Citadel tower must have really spooked him_.

"Earth-clan," he said, "I hope you're feeling better?"

"Doctors gave me a clean bill of health, sir," she said. No need to dwell on the fact that they'd not be able to tell what had happened to her.

A familiar holographic figure was waiting for them when they arrived in Din Korlack's office. Kumun Shol, the volus billionaire. At least he was rendered at a slightly more reasonable scale here in the embassy.

Shepard wondered, not for the first time, whether he'd actually encountered an artefact like the one she'd seen. Was it possible he had? Or was he merely a crazy - _No_ , she corrected herself, _he's too rich to be crazy_ \- merely an eccentric who'd unwittingly stumbled onto something more serious. She couldn't work out a tactful way to find out. _And at least Shol believes me_ , she told herself. Though perhaps he was a little too ready to believe her.

"Let me be … direct," the hologram said, after Korlack had ushered them inside and reintroduced them. "I'm worried that the Council don't … entirely credit my warnings. Despite the evidence I've provided. But … you, Earth-clan. You know what's at stake. And I need … help."

"We're listening," said Vakarian. Shepard thought he seemed a little irritated at being all but ignored so far. _I guess being condescended to by the Council is one thing_ , she thought, _But a turian Spectre probably doesn't expect to be disregarded by a volus_.

"I have a contact, on … Omega," Shol said, his attention still focused on Shepard. "A scientific expert. Somebody who can analyse .. your mind, help … to explain what the Precursors … trying to say."

"Precursors?" said Vakarian, more sharply than Shepard would have expected. "This was a Prothean artefact." _Oh, he's definitely irritated_ , she thought. Slightly to her surprise, she realised she felt slightly sorry for him. _First Vasir shows up on Eden Prime,_ she thought, _Then the person who sent him out there is more interested in talking to a human than to him_. That couldn't be good for Vakarian's ego.

"The Protheans only built on the shoulders of the Precursors," insisted Shol. "Like others before them, and like we do today. The mass relays, element zero, the secrets of dark energy … secrets handed down over millenia."

Shepard's own visions - if that was the right word - hadn't given her anything like this level of detail. If Shol had had a similar experience to her, he'd done a lot of work since to uncover the truth behind the artefacts. Maybe the expert he was trying to get her to contact really would help. _Or he's just making the whole thing up, of course_.

"With all due respect, sir," she said carefully, "I'm needed on the _Resolute_ , I'm an officer, I can't-"

"I'm sure … the Hierarchy can afford to lose … one soldier, for a few weeks." said Shol confidently. "But the galaxy … we need, what's … in your brain, Shepard." The gaps in his words were getting more frequent again. The signal from wherever he was broadcasting was breaking up.

Shepard shook her head slightly. "I don't know, sir," she said, doubtfully, "I'd need Command to sign off on-"

"It's already … agreed, Commander," the volus's voice sounded surprisingly firm, despite the pauses. "I've arranged things with … your Captain. A short break for … medical leave, during which time ... secondment … to Spectre Vakarian's mission. Good … hunting."

The signal cut out. Din Korlack shook his head - it didn't look like they'd be reconnecting any time soon.

Vakarian exchanged a slightly bemused look with her.

"Well, Commander," he said, "It seems that we're going to Omega."


	8. Omega 1

Someone else had gotten it wrong.

Mordin had been on Omega for just over a year now. His clinic had been running for almost ten months. When he'd first arrived in Gozu District, the locals had been hesitant. Not ungrateful for the medical services he offered, but wary of what would happen after they accepted them. They'd assumed it was only a matter of time before one of the gangs took over his clinic- the Blood Pack, perhaps, or the Talons, or Eclipse. The gang leaders had assumed much the same thing.

He'd taught them otherwise. The gangs had tried to force their way in, certainly: the krogan Blood Pack first, and then Eclipse. Tried and failed. He'd fought them off, with guile, diplomacy and - when necessary - sheer force. After their initial attempts, the big gangs had decided that control of one small salarian-run clinic in the outskirts of Omega simply wasn't worth the trouble.

He'd allowed himself to think that it was a lesson he'd only have to teach once. He'd thought the clinic would be safe in his assistants' hands for the two weeks it would take him to visit the monitoring stations on Tuchanka. But, while he'd been away, members of a minor local gang had decided that the salaran doctor's clinic was too tempting a target to pass up.

It had started small, about eight days ago. A few shipments of supplies that went missing, or arrived later than they should have done, contents ransacked, misfiled or missing. Then the clinic staff started reporting being followed home after work, shadowed by tails so obvious they had to want to be noticed.

Then they'd started turning up at the clinic, offering their services as 'security'. That was the day before yesterday, the day before he returned from Tuchanka.

There was no alternative. He was going to have to kill them.

Not only to stop them, but to set an example for the other gangs, bigger and potentially more dangerous, and for the vorcha and other scavengers. _Regrettable. But necessary._ On Omega, you either defended what was yours or you accepted that what you'd thought was yours was actually somebody else's.

Fortunately he still remembered a few tricks from his days in the Special Tasks Group. It helped that the gang were sloppy, unprofessional. _Almost insulted by it._ It was no effort at all to identify some of their members and then hack into their communications systems. That gave him the identities of the rest of the gang. It also gave him the location of their current hideout: a small warehouse only a few blocks away.

He had a few things to unpack from storage before he was ready to depart.

* * *

From the outside, the warehouse looked to have been deserted for months. But Mordin was confident in his analysis. _Empty now, but this is the place_. He'd brought a useful tool with him: a modified surveillance drone, equipped with a camera and some other surprises.

The drone moved almost silently throughout the warehouse, scanning and analysing. The warehouse itself was not in good repair; most likely the gang had only moved in after its previous owners had abandoned it entirely. _Good. Can use that_.

Once his final preparations were complete, Mordin waited patiently in his chosen hiding place. He watched as the traffic ebbed and flowed in the street outside. He tapped out a short message on his omni-tool; broadcast it over the gang's communication network.

Gang members started arriving in the warehouse within minutes of him sending out the message. When they arrived, they saw a small salarian, unarmed, standing nervously in the centre of the warehouse. _Weak. Harmless. Just what they expect to see._

"Got my message? Good," said Mordin. His voice echoed throughout the warehouse. "Wanted to discuss your proposed agreement."

The gang members circled around in the darkness of the warehouse. _All here yet? Not sure. Stall for time._

Mordin knew from his infiltration into the gang's communication system that their leader was a scarred turian, face unpainted and gray. As expected, the turian was out in front of the gang members in the warehouse now. Mordin recognised several of the gang's lieutenants pushing up behind him as well. _Not wise_. Standing operating protocol in STG was for some more senior members to always stay back from the front-lines, away from the rest of the leadership. That kept the group safe from attempted decapitation strikes: even if a determined or lucky attack took out the bulk of the leadership, somebody would be left to recover, regroup, and to organise any retaliatory action. _Not this time_.

"We're listening, doctor." the turian growled slowly, the usual two-toned turian vocals pitched deliberately low and menacing.

"Interference in my clinic's administration unacceptable," said Mordin simply. "Pressure on assistants intolerable. Not willing to countenance any connection with your organisation at present time. Or any future time."

The turian leader's eyes narrowed.

"Well, you've suddenly grown a carapace, doctor," he said. "Your message said you wanted to discuss surrender."

"No change in offer " Mordin countered "Perhaps misunderstanding of original intent. Meant happy to discuss your surrender."

Some of the gang members in the back laughed at that, but their leader wasn't amused. Mordin saw one of his hands reach instinctively for the pistol at his belt, talons flexing. _As expected,_ he thought, _No way to resolve this peacefully._ The gang had set their sights on control of the clinic: backing down now would be a show of weakness that their leadership couldn't afford to make..

"Here's my new proposal," the turian growled, teeth bared and mandibles flaring. "You work for us now, doctor. And if you don't like that, well .. there are plenty more doctors out there."

The gang members crowded around the lone salarian figure in the shadows. Their weapons gleamed menacingly in the darkness. Mordin narrowed his eyes, identifying faces, counting and considering. _All here. Good. Can begin._

"Came here to negotiate your surrender in good faith," he protested. "Didn't expect to waste time trading barbs with self-important cloacas."

The turian blinked, snarled, lifted his pistol up to the doctor's head. "Any last clever words, salarian?" he asked.

On the other side of the street, outside the warehouse, in the same place he'd been standing since before the gang arrived, Mordin smiled mirthlessly to himself. He tapped out a few commands on his omni-tool, and whispered a few words into a microphone. Back in the warehouse, the off-the-shelf hologram he'd spent an hour editing into shape shook its head and echoed them back.

"Should have scanned the warehouse for body heat on arrival," he said. "Would have been surprised by results. Serious mistake. Perhaps learn better in next life."

The turian's only response to this strange comment was to thrust his pistol into the salarian face in front of him and pull down hard on the trigger.

At this point, things started happening very quickly. Luckily the surveillance drone waiting in the warehouse and projecting Mordin's holographic image had cameras to capture it all perfectly.

First, the gang leader's shot passed harmlessly through the image of the salarian's head and pinged harmlessly off the opposite wall. Then Mordin's broadcast switched off and the hologram winked out of existence. The gang members immediately started shouting and arguing amongst themselves. _Good. Just as planned._

Seconds later the security mechs Mordin had unpacked from storage earlier that day and positioned carefully around the warehouse smashed through the windows, pointed their weapons at the gang members and opened fire. And only seconds after that a spark from one of the mechs' shots ignited one of the pockets of propane gas that had been slowly filling the lower floors of the warehouse, ever since Mordin's drone had cut through a few mouldering pipes earlier in the evening.

The ensuing series of explosions brought down first one wall, then another, and then the whole warehouse came crashing down. Bricks and masonry shattered and dust and smoke billowed upwards. And still the mechs kept shooting, steadily and constantly, even as the gang members shouted, panicked, fired wildly back, tried to run, and died.

A stray bullet glanced off the drone itself, and the camera feed cut out, replaced by grey wailing static on Mordin's monitor.

A few minutes later, once the shooting had stopped and the dust had begun to settle, Mordin crawled out of his hiding place on the other side of the street and made his way carefully back to the warehouse. He inspected the scene critically. Between the mechs and the explosion, not much had been left standing. Few of the mechs were left intact, and there was no sign of any living gang members. _Messy_ , he thought to himself. _And noisy. Good reason for rarely using mechs in STG. Personal salarian touch greatly preferable._

He looked down at what remained of the body of the gang's leader. Even in death, the turian looked surprised.

 _Underestimated me, didn't you?_ The thought didn't give him as much satisfaction as it would have done in his younger days. _Getting soft, maybe_. _Getting old_.

He sighed to himself, brought up a hand to rub against the horn on his head. _Over thirty now. Not middle-aged anymore. Suppose useful to be reminded occasionally._

"Professor Solus?"

He didn't recognise the new arrival, a nervous looking batarian clad in unfamiliar armour. _Not one of the gang_. _Not hostile_. He lowered his weapon, carefully.

"The boss sent me to tell you she wants a meeting," the batarian said, looking around the remains of the warehouse curiously.

No need to ask who he meant. There was only one boss on Omega. _Aria_.

"I got to say, doc," the batarian said, "You're not exactly what I was expecting. House call get out of hand?""

"Lots of ways to help improve society," Mordin explained patiently, "Sometimes heal patients. Sometimes execute dangerous people." He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. "Both help."

* * *

Aria ran Omega from the back rooms of Afterlife, the club she'd taken over centuries ago at the start of her rise to power. The club had been popular even before her takeover; these days it was practically a place of worship. A place where people came to be seen, to mingle with the powerful, and to pay homage to the Queen of Omega. Aria T'Loak.

 _Assumed name, naturally,_ he thought to himself. _No records of any asari with that name in Council space. No mention of any asari with that name anywhere before Aria first appeared on Omega._ Mordin's old friends in Special Tactics and Reconnaissance had been very clear about that, when he started planning his retirement a year ago. _Hate entering negotiations with limited intel. Still, worked out reasonably well in the end_.

The queue outside Afterlife stretched down the street. The batarian - Bray, he'd called himself - led Mordin to the front of the line and spoke a few words to the elcor bouncer, who ushered them both inside.

Bray led Mordin through the throngs of revellers that filled the lower floor of Afterlife. The crowds were thick, the music was loud and the atmosphere was heavy with alcoholic fumes and narcotic smoke. Above them asari dancers swayed and twisted on elevated stages and raised platforms. Aria herself had started out as such a dancer, or so it was whispered. Many asari worked as dancers, in their maiden phases, when they weren't working as mercenaries or commandos. _Suspect Aria keeps a close eye on new dancers now. Wouldn't want to see anyone attempt repeat performance._

Aria was waiting in her usual spot, on a mezzanine level accessible only by either of a pair of wide stairs, flanked by bodyguards, lackeys and hangers-on. They were heading towards those stairs when a figure moved out of the crowd ahead of them, beckoning to them with the talons of one hand.

"A word, Professor?" Mordin recognised the speaker, Nyreen Kandros, from one of his rare previous visits.

"Kandros," he said, neutrally. The turian was an unknown factor, a potentially dangerous complication when dealing with Aria. A former Cabal member, the rumour was that she'd led one of the assault teams that hit Torfan in the final battles of the Hierarchy's war against the batarians four years ago. _Nasty business, that_. Whatever the truth, Kandros no longer worked for the Hierarchy. These days she was one of Aria's favoured enforcers, and perhaps something more than that. _Romantic partners, maybe_. _Breaking Omega's one rule? Limited data_ , _difficult to draw conclusions._

For the first time, Mordin wished that he'd paid more attention to the excitable rumours about Omega's self-appointed ruler that he'd occasionally heard from his patients and assistants in Gozu District. _Detest gossip, but might have been potentially useful intel_ , he thought to himself. _Still, no benefit in self-recrimination now. Move on, learn lessons for future_.Salaran interpersonal relationships were much simpler, he reflected. _More discussion of parental alleles, less focus on hormones, poetry or mood music._

"Aria had some bad news this morning. Nothing to do with you," said Kandros, "But try not to piss her off too much today."

"Understood," he replied. "Grateful for warning."

"No need to thank me, Professor," replied Kandros, already turning to leave. "You say something stupid and make her angry, I'm the one who'll have to clean things up."

Mordin hurried after Bray, who'd already reached the foot of the stairs. They passed by a small group, several enforcers he remembered from before and a young-looking turian he didn't recognise, standing impatiently among Aria's bodyguards.

Bray motioned Mordin up, wordlessly, then turned and greeted the turian. From the sounds of their conversation, the turian wasn't too happy about having to wait. _Probably first time on Omega_ , thought Mordin. _Not used to being pushed to back of line_. Aria liked to greet new arrivals to Omega personally, if her spies thought they merited the attention. It gave her a sense of any potential threats to her rule, or of anybody likely to cause unhelpful trouble. But she liked to make them wait, too, unless they forget whose world they were visiting.

Aria was waiting at the platform on top of the stairs, bodyguards standing a discreet distance away. She lounged on a large black sofa, looking up at him thoughtfully without speaking. _Dalatrasses would prefer nutrient pool to couch, but same principle. Similar situation: similar social logic called for._ He bowed, respectfully. Carefully

"Bray tells me that you've been out fighting with gang members, Professor," Aria said, finally breaking the silence. Her voice was low, controlled. If she was angry, as Kandros had claimed, she was showing no outward sign of it. "Not expanding your clinic's activities to vigilante heroics, I hope?"

"Gang only brief distraction," he said, "Were attempting to take control of clinic. Found this proposition unacceptable. Problem dealt with."

"And you made certain this gang weren't working for me before you 'dealt with' them?" The asari's voice was still deceptively mild, but he thought he could sense the anger behind the surface now. Aria was happy for the gangs to fight one another, as long as they did so in the knowledge that they acted on sufferance. The Blood Pack and the Talons could squabble with each other for control of one corner of the world or another; Eclipse could deal out swift retribution to whoever dared to compete with their trade in red sand; but all of this was done only on the understanding that all of Omega, ultimately, belonged to the asari who sat in front of him. _Possibly just projecting own fears_ , he reminded himself. _Always difficult to be sure with asari_.

"Gang were inexperienced," he said calmly. "Lacked discipline, training, basic professionalism. Knew if you wanted me out you would be more subtle. More effective."

She laughed softly at that, leant back on her couch and stroked her chin thoughtfully. She started to speak, then looked away, down at the dancing crowds in the open space below them.

"Very well then," she said. "Hurry back to your clinic, salarian." Briefly he wondered why she'd bothered to summon him over for this. _Can't just be to enjoy the pleasure of intelligent conversation or stare at missing cranial horn. Besides, wasn't aware of action against gang until after Bray was sent, before warehouse attack._

"Just one more thing," she said, as he began to bow again. _Ah_ , he said. _The point_. Her voice was deliberately nonchalant, her eyes still focused on the crowds dancing below. "You haven't seen an unfamiliar young asari in your district recently, have you? Coming by the clinic to look for work, or treatment perhaps? She'd be .. oh, about a century old, I imagine." She turned away from the dancers below and studied him carefully.

"Few asari in Gozu," he said simply. "Would remember seeing one, especially if interested in working at clinic. Always looking for new assistants, if properly trained or willing to learn. No asari looking for work. No asari seeking treatment."

"That will be all then" She waved a hand regally, dismissing him from her presence, and turning back to look out over the dance floor again. Bowing again, he backed away slowly, three slow and measured paces, before he turned to leave.

"But Professor, do remember one thing," Aria called to him as he headed down the stairs. "I'm not always subtle."

* * *

The queues outside Afterlife had grown longer while Mordin had been inside. Turains and batarians mostly, but also asari, salarians, vorcha, krogan and even one or two quarians. Mordin ran his eye past them professionally, but none of them stood out. No signs of unusual illness or contagion, no faces he recognised from his days in STG.

Omega didn't have a standard day-night cycle; the back-alleys and promenades were bathed in a perpetual twilight gloom. But it looked like one of the main work shifts had ended recently, and those lucky enough to have credits to spend had headed out to their usual spot to do exactly that.

The unpleasantness with the gang resolved, Mordin was keen to get back to his clinic and resume unpacking. He had samples to catalogue: soil, vegetation, seeds, particulates. But one of the figures loitering outside - standing by a wall, not in the queue - had caught his attention. Shorter than most space-faring species, pale skin oddly soft and defenceless, head crowned by a pelt of alien fur. A strange looking creature. A human.

Mordin always found the species fascinating, ever since the Council species had first become aware of them. _Never had time for properly rigorous study though._ He wondered what a human was doing waiting outside Afterlife. _Combat armour shows, scars. Military. Face undecorated, so likely not working with Hierarchy. Mercenary, then. Looking for work?_ If Aria wasn't hiring, one of the smaller gangs was sure to be. One gang or another always was. Mordin wasn't sure they'd want to risk recruiting a human though. _Few human gangs on Omega. None of them significant_.

Music was spilling from Afterlife's open doors, a rumbling, pulsating beat, but the human's foot tapped out an subtly different rhythm. Mordin couldn't tell if that was deliberate or not. _Maybe just poor musical instincts._ He wondered if that was indicative of the species or just an individual quirk. _Not wise to attempt to generalise from single subject_. He liked to sing, himself, though most other salarians did not.

He watched as the human frowned, shaking her head. She narrowed her eyes, stopped tapping her foot and started rubbing at her temples.

 _Headache? Migraine? Symptoms of some more serious condition?_ He peered at the human curiously. _Not enough data for reasoned diagnosis._

As he watched, a pair of drunken batarians bumped into the human - deliberately, he was sure - and walked off laughing. Had they turned around, they might have noticed the glow of blue energy that briefly flickered over the human's hands, or the angry look in her eyes as she stared after them. _Ah. Biotic._ Maybe the gangs wouldn't be as reluctant to hire her as he'd assumed.

 _Still, would not be good idea for a human to start fight with batarians outside Afterlife_ , he thought. There were more batarians on Omega than there had been for years, according to his assistants. Mercenaries and privateers, mostly, but also some refugees from the batarian habitats the turians had subjected to orbital bombardment during the war. They were not well disposed to humans. _Not well disposed to turians, either, of course, but turians belong to Hierarchy or to gangs - can fight back._ A lone human on Omega would not be so fortunate.

Mordin was moving towards the human before he'd even made the conscious decision to intervene. _De-escalate, avoid conflict. Another way to help._

"Apologies for interruption," he said as he approached, not quite sure what he was going to say next. "Noticed you appeared in some discomfort earlier. Wondered if - no, wanted to ask: problems with biotic implant?"

The human looked at him warily, the faint, almost imperceptible blue glow that had surrounded her fading imperceptibly away.

"Can help," he explained. "Doctor. If symptoms persist, would happily treat at clinic. Goza District, not far from here. Easy to find: just ask locals for directions." He paused for half a second, considering. "No charge." If the human was looking for work on Omega, she was likely desperate.

"Thanks for the offer, doc." The human's voice was quieter than he'd been expecting. He couldn't interpret her tone. _Embarrassed? Amused?_ "But my biotics are working fine. It's just been a long week. I-"

The human's next words were drowned at by the sudden frenzied beeping of Mordin's personal communicator. It was a message from one of his assistants at the clinic. He scanned it quickly. _Fire in Environmental Control? Bad. Burn victims, possible problems with air recycling units? Very bad. No time to waste. Have to start emergency first reponse, triage,..._

"Apologies. Have to go. Emergency." Even as he spoke was already scanning the promenade for the nearest cab. "If change mind later, don't forget: clinic in Gozu District."

He didn't wait long enough to hear if the human replied. Sixty seconds later he was airborne, back en route to Gozu District, firing off commands and advice to his assistants back in the clinic. He'd put all thoughts of Aria, Afterlife and the human out of his mind. _Good to have a hobby in retirement. Keeps the mind sharp._


	9. Omega 2

It _had_ been a long week.

It was strange to think it had only been a week, Shepard mused. Eden Prime, Jenkins' death, the strange Prothean artefact, and now this. Dragged away from her crew to satisfy the whims of a possibly delusional volus billionaire. Sent more than halfway across the galaxy to accompany a turian Spectre even younger than her species' government. And finally, once they'd actually got to Omega - a barren, hollowed-out asteroid drifting in the depths of the Terminus Systems - after they'd been summoned to Afterlife to speak with the world's self-appointed ruler, now made to wait outside by an elcor bouncer who'd made it very clear that no humans were included on Aria T'Loak's guest list.

She'd been back on the _Resolute_ soon, she told herself. Once Vakarian was finally finished chatting with Omega's asari ruler, they'd be able to find Kumun Shol's contact. Shol's contact would fix whatever that artefact had done to her head, and then she'd be back on board her ship. Then she'd be back where she belonged. _The sooner the better_ , she thought, warily eyeing a trio of batarians as they stalked contemptuously past her.

She wondered what was taking Vakarian so long. The turian mercenary who'd met them shortly after they arrived on Omega hadn't been very talkative. All she knew was that Aria wanted to talk to Vakarian. She didn't know what they were talking about. _It won't be long now_ , she told herself. She wasn't sure she believed it.

At least, apart from the odd salarian doctor earlier, people seemed to be avoiding her. She was getting a few odd looks, of course - humans were even rarer on Omega than they were in Council space - but she was used to odd looks. It took more than looks to bother her.

She kept herself from looking in their direction, but on the periphery of her vision she could see that the trio of batarians had stopped moving and were now just staring in her direction, arguing quietly amongst themselves. Now that was something that bothered her.

Vakarian still hadn't come back out. It had been well over an hour by now. She wondered how much longer she was going to have to wait. She wondered if- then she caught a fragment of the batarians' whispered argument, no more than a single word, but enough to make her freeze. _Torfan_. Still forcing herself not to looking in their direction, she strained to make out anything else.

"My cousin was on Torfan," she heard, faintly, "I'm telling you, that's ..."

The batarians were far enough away that she couldn't make out everything that they said. But she could hear enough to worry. Enough to risk a glance in their direction.

One of the batarians - the smallest and most junior, to judge from his bearing and lack of obvious rank insignia - was pointing right at her. He'd been the one she heard talking about Torfan, she guessed. The other two seemed unconvinced, but they too were looking in her direction. One of them made eye contact, scowled, and stared at her challengingly.. She looked back at him unblinking. Looking away now would be seen as a sign of weakness. And looking weak in front of batarians was never a good idea.

The batarian staring straight at her was the tallest of three, and the one who seemed the most sceptical. He was also a current or former member of one of their special forces divisions, judging by the black and yellow stripes inscribed over the pale green skin of his forehead. _This could be trouble_ , she thought.

"... an idiot?" she heard him sneer at his smaller companion. She didn't manage to catch the rest, but the whatever was said made the smaller of the batarians flinch backwards, bowing his head in submission.

She almost dared to hope that that was the end of it, but instead the sceptical batarian strode forward to confront her, dragging the other two in his wake behind him. They stopped a few feet away, all three of them looking down at her with all four eyes, heads tilted contemptuously to the side. The leader didn't speak, not to her, but after staring at her wordlessly for several seconds he turned away to address his companions.

"You think this small creature is the Butcher?" he asked them in disbelief, gesturing back at her theatrically. "You think an animal like this could harm even one of our kind?"

 _Take a step further forward and maybe you'll find out_ , she thought, trying to keep the emotion from her face. The batarian ignored her, continuing to rant to his companions.

"You think the Butcher would dare show its face on any world in the Terminus systems after what the Hierarchy did on Torfan?"

Her biotic amp was a growing warmth against the back of her neck. _These three shouldn't be a problem,_ she told herself, _But if there are many more batarians in the crowds..._

"No," the batarian sneered, tilting his head to the right at he turned back to look at her. "This one is just another stupid two-eyed, hairy, ug-"

He froze. None of them had noticed him leave the club, but Vakarian was now standing a foot behind him, weapon raised.

"The thing you can feel pressing on the back of your skull is the barrel of a state-of-the-art HMWP-X pistol," the turian said, the twin tones of his voice oddly gentle, "Strictly reserved for Spectres and other elite Council agents; I'm not exaggerating when I say it's the most powerful hand-cannon in the galaxy.

The batarian's eyes twitched, and he lifted his hands slowly up to his sides, empty palms visible, a traditional batarian gesture of submission. If Vakarian noticed, he didn't react. He kept speaking in the same even, slightly-too-calm tones.

"It's designed for soldiers who expect to be trading shots with krogan battlemasters or asari commandos, firing at distance through heavy armour and kinetic barriers", he said. "At this range it would blow your head into so many pieces your soul wouldn't be able to find your eye sockets. So what you need to ask yourself is: 'what can I do to keep the nice turian holding this weapon from pulling the trigger?' Any guesses?"

All four of the batarian's eyes were wide open, Shepard saw, his lower-left eyelid twitching rapidly. His companions stepped back, carefully, looking at their leader for guidance. He didn't seem keen on fighting.

"Now, hold on, sir," he said, nervously, "There's no need for any trouble here. We didn't know this animal was yours, that's al-"

"That's odd," interrupted Vakarian, thoughtfully, "My translator must be glitching. I could have sworn you just referred to an officer of the Hierarchy military as an 'animal', but … there's no way a smart batarian like you would be that stupid, is there?"

 _How many human officers are there in the Hierarchy?_ thought Shepard, distantly. _How many of them_ didn't _serve on Torfan?_ If Vakarian kept on like this, it was surely only a matter of time before the batarians realised that she actually was the person they'd accused her of being, or at least the next best thing. Then either they'd have to die or they'd live to spread the news across Omega. _The Butcher of Torfan_ , she thought bitterly, _Wandering around the Terminus Systems like an idiot_.

"You know nobody on Omega cares if you're some big-shot Council Spectre, right?" One of the other two batarians asked, warily. "You're in the Terminus Systems now. Council law doesn't mean anything out here."

Vakarian nodded, at that, mandibles flexing slightly. "That's true enough," he said reasonably. "There's only one law on Omega. Of course, that cuts more than one way: I don't need to be a Spectre to get away with shooting your friend in broad daylight. And, while we're on that topic …"

He motioned towards the other two batarians with his free hand, talons open wide apart, waving them forward.

"I get nervous when I think people might be thinking of sneaking up behind me," he said, apologetically. "And when I get nervous, well, I might do something you'd regret."

"Look, turian," blustered the smallest batarian, "We don't want any trouble. Just take your animal and-"

Vakarian sighed theatrically, but his hands stayed steady.

"She's a human," he said, voice still calm but mandibles twitching, "Not an animal. And she has a name. It's-"

 _Well, this it…_ Shepard readied herself to throw up a barrier.

"Annoyed," rumbled the voice of the elcor bouncer, booming unexpectedly close. "This area is for queueing, not fighting. And none of you are getting in to Afterlife tonight."

Vakarian's weapon was back in its holster almost before the elcor had finished speaking. Shepard didn't even see it move.

"No fighting here," he said, "Just giving my batarian friends here a helpful lesson on inter-species etiquette."

"He threatened us!" protested one of the smaller batarians. Shepard spotted Vakarian looking at her and rolled her eyes theatrically. She didn't need translation software to know what the elcor thought about that complaint.

"Bluntly," the eclor said, bass voice rumbling low and calm, "I don't care."

"Maybe your boss would be a little more interested," one of the batarians spat back. "Or have the Council annexed Omega without telling anyone?"

"Matter-of-factly: Aria won't care either," the elcor said. "Helpful suggestion: go away."

"Well, maybe we'll give Aria a reason to care," the tall batarian suggested, moving to join his companions on the other side of the promenade from Shepard and Vakarian.

He was a lot more confident in himself without a gun to his head, Shepard noted.

"With barely constrained menace," the elcor rumbled, close enough to the batarian that the four-eyed alien had to look up to maintain eye contact, "Try it."

Time seemed to slow down for a moment; the batarian weighing his chances. He was ex-special forces, he had back-up, both with weapons drawn, and the elcor bouncer was slow-moving and unarmed. It seemed pretty clear to Shepard that the batarians didn't have a chance. Elcor were not to be trifled with.

The batarian must have reached the same conclusion, as he shook his head, muttered under his breath and stalked away, companions at his heels.

"... so, Vakarian," she asked, once she was sure the batarians were out of earshot. "Was any of that actually true?"

The turian shook his head. "You really think the Council would let me play with any of the good stuff?" he asked ruefully. "Sometimes I'm surprised they don't expect me to pay for my own weapons."

She wondered if Vakarian realised how close they'd come to a fight. She wasn't sure how much of her one-sided argument with the batarians he'd overheard. She knew he'd read her service files, but she didn't know how much of them he remembered, or if realised the significance of Torfan to batarians, the risk she was taking on Omega. She couldn't think of a way to ask without sounding ungrateful.

"Get anything out of this Aria T'Loak?" she asked instead. "You were in there a while."

Vakarian scowled, mandibles flexing and teeth bared. "I spent most of that time waiting," he said. "Aria was making a point. We only actually spoke for a couple of minutes."

He frowned thoughtfully, putting a taloned hand to his chin thoughtfully.

"Come to think of it," he said "I suspect her main reason for speaking to me at all was to see whether I could help her track down a missing asari maiden. Not the asari we're looking for, somebody else who's apparently gone missing on Omega recently. I couldn't, of course, and she lost interest pretty quickly after that."

"Anything else?" she asked.

"Well, uh," he frowned "As I was leaving, she told me to remember I wasn't in Council space anymore and that I should avoid shooting anybody dead on the Promenade."

 _And five minutes later you were pointing a gun at a stranger right outside Afterlife,_ Shepard thought. _I guess Aria wasn't the only one who wanted to make a point._

* * *

"... alone here, our brothers and sisters on Earth. In our hubris, we thought to abandon the lands of our ancestors, to spread like a plague among the stars …"

Minutes later, not far from the lights and eager queues outside Afterlife, they found themselves in a dirty alleyway, A small group of onlookers - mostly vorcha, she thought - had gathered around a raggedly-dressed human man, who ranted and shouted at them with a hoarse, desperate voice. Vorcha would listen to anything if they thought they might get to eat it afterwards.

Shepard wondered what series of events could have brought the man here, to Omega. Had he started out as a prospector, one of the few humans reckless enough to head out to seek their fortune in the Terminus systems after the Second Blitz? Or had he been one of the unlucky ones who'd been captured by the batarians during the early days of the war?

"Now Earth drifts silently in the unbroken darkness," the human exclaimed, working himself to a frenzied pitch. "Lost to us forever. Our families left behind on Earth, gone from the galaxy; punished for the sins and errors of our ancestors. Lost to the void of eternity."

He paused, longer than a more polished speaker would have done, long enough that some of the crowd began to disperse, thinking that the show was over.

"But perhaps you think we were saved?" he asked, suddenly. "No. Not one of us will know salvation. We are all guilty. We have all been judged. This is no purgatory: this is hell."

The preacher looked around the small crowd, eyes darting feverishly from one person to the next. His eyes lit up when he saw Vakarian.

"This is hell," he repeated, lifting a trembling arm to point towards the turian, "And all the devils are here."

"I don't know what a 'devil' is," whispered Vakarian later, after the man had fallen silent again and the crowd had begun to break up. "But I'm guessing that's not a compliment."

"It's a human religious thing," Shepard said, awkwardly. "A bit like spirits, but … not. You'd probably have to ask an expert." _Or anybody other than me_ , she thought. Like human politics, human religion was something she'd rather not discuss with the Spectre.

They walked in silence for a few paces, or as close to silence as could be found on Omega. All around them the bustle of Omega continued: nightclubs, gambling dens and vorcha fighting pits touted for business; black market merchants called out to passersby with promises of special offers on weapons, and on secrets, and on red sand, and on slaves.

"My father would have hated this place," said Vakarian abruptly. "The crime, the chaos."

The turian looked around He shook his head. " _I_ hate this place."

Privately, Shepard decided she'd seen enough to hate it herself. This was an old world - long dead civilisations had been mining the rock while humanity was still coming to grips with the concept of stone tools. The mining had been so extensive that all Omega's resources had been depleted long before even the turians discovered the Citadel. Still, Omega continued to offer something to its many, ever-changing residents. The world was a haven for pirates, smugglers and mercenary gangs. It offered the illusive hope of a fresh start for people whose lives had taken one wrong turning too many. Freedom from the laws of other worlds, from the very concept of galactic law.

 _There's only one rule on Omega_ , Shepard thought. _The strong prey on the weak, and the weak suffer_.

"I don't think you've mentioned your father before," she said to break the silence. "What did he do?"

"Citadel Security," said Vakarian. "Maintaining order at the very heart of Council space. He didn't approve when I was offered Spectre training. He thought the early Council had made a mistake when it started the Spectre programme. Told me that Spectres had too much power and no real responsibility. I actually think he expected me to follow him into C-Sec. Maybe I would have, but ..." he trailed off.

"But?" she asked.

"He was visiting Kahje a few years ago," Vakarian replied quietly. "Chasing up reports of a drell assassin operating on the Citadel."

The turian sighed. "That was when Kahje fell off the network. We still don't know what happened to him."

The sudden disappearance of Kahje, the hanar homeworld - barely a decade after the loss of Earth - had sent shockwaves through the galactic community. Unlike humanity, the hanar and their clients the drell had been part of galactic civilisation for centuries. They had lived and traded on many worlds, a small but integral part of Citadel space. But, just like Earth, one day the mass relay near Kahje had simply vanished from the network and all communication with the planet had ceased.

"After that," said Vakarian slowly. "It didn't seem right to keep pretending not to notice that something very worrying was happening. Hard to imagine joining C-Sec and worrying about traffic violations when planets were going missing."

What had happened to Kahje had prompted a wave of religious hysteria among the remaining hanar. Most of them were convinced - or at least claimed to be convinced - that this was all the work of the ancient species they knew as the Enkindlers. This was the name the hanar gave to the people who, the hanar claimed, had uplifted their species millenia ago. The people of the lost civilisation that the rest of the galaxy knew as the Protheans.

 _And who knows_ , she thought, _maybe they were right_. Still, after all this time, nobody had come close to solving the mystery. Mass relays just didn't stop working, after all. Everyone could agree on that. Most of the surviving hanar had begun travelling back to Kahje the long way: strictly FTL, no mass relays involved. If any of them had made it to Kahje yet, they hadn't reported back to the rest of the galaxy. So either they hadn't made it back - but surely some of them would have by now - or something had stopped them from contacting the rest of the galaxy. Whatever had caused Kahje to vanish from the network now stopped anyone who travelled there from returning to reveal the planet's fate.

 _Just like Terra Firma_ , Shepard thought to herself. The largest of the unofficial and unsanctioned human attempts to travel the long road to Earth had met with the same fate as all the others: promises, expectation, delays, and then … nothing. Silence.

At least the disappearance of Kahje had convinced those sceptics in Council space who had speculated - publicly as well as privately - that humanity's talk of 'Earth' was nothing more than a primitive species' myth or fancy. Something had happened to the hanar homeworld; probably the same thing that had happened to Earth. And although in the years since nothing similar had happened again, it was, perhaps, only a matter of time.

"I'm sorry," Shepard said weakly, aware it was too late, aware that it wasn't enough. "My parents … well, you've read my files. You know they died on Mindoir."

She paused, not sure what to say next. She still wasn't sure if she should be treating Vakarian as a superior or a junior officer. He was a Spectre, somebody who could give orders to generals or admirals in the name of the Citadel Council. But as a Spectre he was also outside the usual chain of command, and sometimes he just seemed incredibly young. The sort of junior officer who needed some quiet reassuring words now and then before he forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

 _If I were a turian,_ she thought, _I wouldn't being having this problem_. Turians, born and raised in the Hierarchy, knew where they belonged, where others belonged in relation to them. It was a familiar frustration. She never seemed to know what to say or how to act when it mattered.

"I sometimes think it would be worse if I could still remember them," she said quietly, surprising herself.

She hadn't said that to anybody else in a long time. _Not while sober, anyway_. She glanced at him, half-expecting to see a disapproving or disappointed look on his face. It didn't feel like the sort of thing you were supposed to admit. He looked thoughtful, instead.

"Maybe. I think about my father a lot. What he'd do, what he'd say. I still talk to him, sometimes," the turian said. "It's stupid, but…"

"It helps," she nodded. It did. She'd done the same thing, when she was younger. Not since her first few missions as an auxiliary though; not since Jacob Taylor. These days she had other deaths to reproach herself for.

Her thoughts drifted back to the hanar.

The disappearance of Kahje had marked the end of the hanar's presence as a significant player in galactic politics. There were still hanar to be found on most worlds, of course, just as there were humans or quarians or vorcha. But there was no organised hanar government, no hanar presence on the Citadel.

She couldn't help but think of the vision she'd seen when she touched the beacon. Images of destruction and death on a scale she still struggled to comprehend. _Is that what happened to Kahje?_ she wondered, _Is that what happened to Earth?_

"Vakarian," she said, "Do you think-"

Her stomach chose that moment to rumble so loudly that for a moment she was sure the turian could hear it.

"Actually, Vakarian," she said, "Would you mind if stop to eat something?"

The turian looked startled for a moment. She guessed he'd been thinking about his father. He shook his head slowly, returning his attention to the present.

"Huh," he said. "Come to think of it I can't remember seeing you eat. Not since..." He paused, thoughtfully.

"I ate on the Citadel," she said, a little more defensively than she'd intended.

"Spirits, Shepard, that was yesterday," he said. "You haven't eaten since then?"

He looked appalled; just as Komarov had done months ago the first time she realised that the infamous Butcher of Torfan had a habit of skipping meals. She hoped Talitha was doing okay without her. She hoped all the crew were. _I'll be back soon_ , she told herself.

"I thought biotics were supposed to eat more calories than the rest of us." said Vakarian. From the tone of his voice, he obviously knew that they were.

"We are," she admitted anyway. "I just … forgot. Normally I get one of the crew to remind me, but..."

"Well," said Vakarian, "At least that's one problem I can solve today."

He looked around. They'd been walking through Omega's back alleys without giving much thought to their route, eyes scanning automatically for potential threats but minds not fully engaged on their surroundings.. _Not the smartest thing to do on Omega_. But now they'd emerged in what seemed to be a slightly more affluent area; the streets were just a little cleaner, the shop-fronts just a little better maintained. _Maybe this is a good place to start looking for Shol's contact_ , she thought.

"I wonder if there's anywhere nearby that sells decent dextro-food", Vakarian mused.

"Okay, you win Vakarian," she said, "We'll get something to eat. But then we need to find this asari and see if she can fix whatever that artefact did to me."

 _And if she can't, then …_ Well, that was something she'd deal with if she had to. _One way or another_.

* * *

They ended up buying food from a quarian street vendor. Shepard wondered what he was doing out here. _Strange place to go on a Pilgrimage_. She thought it might be rude to ask though, so she stayed quiet. Shepard rather liked the quarians, or so she'd decided when she was younger. She admired them, anyway, in a strange way.

Like humanity, the quarians had lost their home world, and like humanity they were dismissed and looked down on by the Council and most of the galaxy. They were survivors though: they were tough, disciplined. She doubted humanity would have coped as well if it hadn't been for the intervention of the Hierarchy. She doubted it very much.

Vakarian had brightened considerably when the quarian announced that he specialised in Galatana-style turian cuisine. Shepard recognised the name of Galatana Colony from the histories of the Unification Wars she'd studied as a teenager, but her lectures had neglected to mention anything about the food. _Which is just as well,_ she told herself, _Seeing that it's all dextro and I can't eat any of it_.

Shepard ended up with something grey and cold and tentacled that was apparently an asari delicacy. Staring at it suspiciously didn't make it seem any more edible. _At least Vakarian's happy_.

She'd always hated other people watching her eat. She had done for as long as she could remember, even before she'd started living with turians. Or she thought, anyway: it had been a long time.

Not being a turian didn't help of course. Turians had evolved from predators, and ate like it, ripping apart their food with teeth and talons and swallowing the small pieces whole. Humans had evolved from something with flat teeth for eating plants, so had to chew. It made her feel self-conscious, awkwardly aware of just how much time she was spending with her mouth closed and full of bits of food.

She watched Vakarian from the corner of her eyes as they ate. Or rather while he ate and she picked and prodded at the congealing mess on her plate and wished, not for the first time in her life, that eating levo didn't mean people assumed you wanted to eat like an asari.

Like most turians, Vakarian ate with surprising delicacy. If she'd tried to eat like that - grabbing at the skewered meat with flat teeth and stubby fingers - she'd have ended up splashing sauce and juices everywhere. She'd learn that lesson from experience, though at least to her teenage self's credit she'd had the sense to experiment in her own room with the door firmly locked. But somehow turians made it work.

An unfamiliar salarian wandered up to their table while they were finishing. He didn't say anything until Vakarian set his plate down and looked at him curiously.

"Oh, hello friends." he said then, too brightly. Shepard looked at him warily. _If we're lucky, he's just here to try to sell us something_.

"My name's Ish," he continued, unprompted. "I hear you have a problem I can help you out with."

"And who did you hear that from, exactly?" asked Vakarian.

The salarian didn't answer, but looked thoughtfully at the remains on the turian's plate instead.

"Galatanan espetinho?" the salarian asked. "Careful, friend. Too much of that is bad for you, I hear."

 _Too much of anything is bad for you,_ thought Shepard irritably, still forcing herself to finish eating. _That's what 'too much' means._

"Too much of anything is bad for you," replied Vakarian equably, as if echoing her thoughts. "What was it that you wanted to tell us?"

"Word on the street is that you're looking for an asari," the salarian said. "A very particular asari."

The salarian - _Ish_ , Shepard reminded herself - didn't seem comfortable standing out in the open. He fidgeted nervously, blinking more than he should have done. First impressions could be misleading, but she'd decided that she didn't trust him.

"You're saying you know where we can find Doctor T-"

"Not so loud, friends," hissed the salarian, eyes darting left and right. "She has spies everywhere."

"She?" said Shepard, finally victorious in her battle with the thing the asari had decided to call food. "You mean Aria T'Loak?"

"I'd never say a bad word about Aria," the salarian protested, too loudly and too quickly.

 _Well, of course not,_ thought Shepard drily, _She has spies everywhere, after all_. She really didn't trust the salarian, but they needed a lead. And it looked like this was a lead. Of sorts.

"The doctor you're looking for, the asari, she's waiting for you," the salarian said, eyes darting nervously from side to side. "She sent me to find you."

"Why you?" asked Vakarian bluntly.

"I'm in the information business" the salarian said carefully. "Nothing untoward, of course. Nothing that would involve violence or, ah, tampering with electronic security protocols. Just trading certain interesting tidbits I come across with various interested parties."

"You mean you sell other people's poorly guarded secrets to the highest bidder and don't stick around long enough to see the consequences," said Shepard.

"We all have to earn a living, my friend," replied the salarian a little stiffly. "The point is that the doctor knows that I'm somebody who can be relied on. We've worked together in the past."

 _Why would an expert on Prothean artefacts need to deal with someone like you?_ She didn't say anything out loud, but let the doubt show plainly on her face. The salarian didn't seem put off. In truth, as soon as she'd stopped talking to him, he lost all interest in her, turning back to address Vakarian instead.

"She's lying low in one of the outer districts," he said. "I spoke to her just a few hours ago. She's been waiting for you for some time."

"Well," said Vakarian slowly, the tone of his voice showing he shared Shepard's doubts about their new friend. "I guess we don't want to disappoint her."

* * *

The district they arrived in following Ish's directions was not what Shepard expected. It was run down, badly lit, and the buildings - mostly warehouses and storage units - seemed old and badly in need of maintenance. It was hard for her to believe that anybody lived here by choice; harder still to believe that a visiting asari would choose to stay here.

Shepard was aware, at least in theory, that there had to be poor asari. It was a logical possibility, at least, just like smart vorcha or brave salarians. But somehow all asari she'd ever met projected the impression of wealth and affluence, not necessarily of excessive riches but certainly confident self-sufficiency. Nobody who had to live in this district, even for a short few days, could give that impression.

The salarian's directions had led them to a unremarkable building; a motel, to judge by the badly illuminated sign over the front door. The decor was as shabby and run-down as everything else in the district. _And I thought planets smelled bad,_ she thought, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

"Room 47," said Vakarian, checking his visor for the last of Ish's directions.

The door wasn't locked, and the asari waiting for them in the gloom of the dark motel room was younger than Shepard had expected. She was lying on a sofa that had clearly seen better days, staring at the door through half-closed eyes.

And - once Vakarian threw the lights on, bathing the room in a bright neon glow - she was also very clearly dead. Shepard wasn't an expert in asari physiology, but she knew that living asari tended to keep most of their blood on the inside.

"Doctor Thanoptis, I presume," said Vakarian. He looked intently at the body, crouching down to inspect it. His father had been in C-Sec, he'd told her earlier. She wondered if a part of him didn't regret not following him into that career.

"This looks like krogan work," he said, grimly. "Look: her spinal cord's been cut with a serrated blade, just below the neck. This is the sort of ritual execution the krogan used to kill captured asari prisoners during the Rebellions."

He looked at Shepard. Crouching, she realised he was almost at her eye level. He looked worried.

"More importantly," he said, "Given the state of the body, she's been dead for at least a day. Maybe even longer."

"So she probably wasn't chatting to our salarian friend any time in the last few hours?" said Shepard, feeling her amp warming up as she spoke. _That salarian is going to pay_.

Vakarian nodded. "Looks like our friend Ish set us up. We need to move. Now."

They made it two blocks before they ran into the ambush.


	10. Omega 3

"You ever fought krogan before, Shepard?" Vakarian called out over the gunfire.

She hadn't.

Since joining the crew of the _Resolute_ after Torfan, the ship had been deployed on a series of operations against batarian forces and their privateer allies on the edges of Hegemony space. The batarians - who frequently boasted of the innate superiority of their species to the other intelligent life of the galaxy - were disinclined to hire non-batarian mercenaries, and certainly not the violent and uncultured krogan. More simply, most batarian pirate groups couldn't afford to pay the credits that krogan mercenaries demanded.

"It's not as fun as you'd imagine," Vakarian reflected. "Unless you're a krogan too, of course. Nothing a krogan enjoys more than fighting other krogan."

The two of them were pinned down in an alley, sheltering behind abandoned warehouse storage units and broken machinery. None of it offered any real protection from the gunfire of the two krogan and their vorcha allies at the mouth of the alley, which is why almost all of Shepard's attention was focused on keeping her biotic barrier up at maximum strength.

Vakarian's sniper rifle rested ignored at his back - no use in conditions like this. He peered around the corner of the crate he was crouching behind, holding the same pistol he'd drawn outside Afterlife hours before.

"Armoured skin too tough to cut with anything but a molecular blade..." he mused out loud, firing off a couple of rounds as the vorcha crept slowly forwards.

"Secondary and tertiary back-ups of all major organs…"

Shepard's barrier absorbed a burst of gunfire from the vorcha, while Vakarian unclipped and reloaded a heat sink.

"A redundant nervous system, almost unbelievable regenerative rates…"

Another few rounds from the pistol were rewarded with a sudden, short yelp of pain from the vorcha.

"Seven feet tall, weight as much as eight hundred pounds, and a charging speed which … well, you don't want them to charge you, trust me ..."

A snarling krogan grabbed a retreating vorcha by the back of the neck and hurled him forwards, before cocking his shotgun and advancing forward himself.

"Young krogan are rare, thanks to the genophage, so most of the krogan you'll ever fight will have hundreds of years of experience in battle "

Shepard took a chance and dropped her barrier for a second; focusing her energy instead on pulling at the shotgun in the krogan's hands. That was just enough to make the krogan misfire, one shot hitting the back of the unfortunate vorcha he'd just thrown in front of him and two others going harmlessly into the air.

"And the older they get, the smarter, tougher and meaner they become."

Shepard's barriers sprang back into place just in time, as the other krogan sprayed the position she and Vakarian were crouching behind with a hail of gunfire.

Vakarian nodded to Shepard in appreciation, loaded another heat sink, and exhaled slowly.

"On the plus side," he continued, "Most krogans aren't biotic, but-"

There was a distinctive flicker of blue light from the alleyway entrance, and a sound like thunder as a wave of biotic energy crashed into and around Shepard's barrier, shattering the windows of the warehouse behind them.

"But those that are tend to be tougher and meaner than most." Vakarian sighed.

"You're trapped, Spectre," a booming voice called out. "Surrender, we let your pyjak leave here alive, and we might not even hurt you that much before we hand you over to our employer. Or ... don't. More fun for us if you don't."

"I don't know what a 'pyjak' is," Shepard whispered to Vakarian. "But I'm guessing that's not a compliment."

Vakarian's only answer to both of them was to wordlessly unpin an incendiary grenade, count silently to himself for two seconds, then throw it towards the alley mouth in the direction the krogan voice had come from. After the initial blast of the explosion, Shepard heard the sound of burning rubbish, screaming vorcha and a krogan … _wait, is that laughter?_

"Not a smart choice, turian." the booming voice called out again, mockingly. "But if you were smart, you wouldn't have dared to enter Blood Pack territory without an escort. If you were smart, you wouldn't be trapped."

The speaker emerged through the smoke and ash of the explosion, a tall krogan, clad in blood-red armour, shimmering with the blue glow of biotic energy. Behind him followed the first two krogan, as well as more of their vorcha underlings than she could easily count.

The krogan biotic grinned, baring a set of cracked and yellowing fangs.

"And yet here you are." he said.

Vakarian muttered something under his breath. He looked a lot more worried than he had a few minutes ago. Shepard shot a quizzical glance in his direction.

"That's a Battlemaster," he said softly. "One of the rare krogan even other krogan don't enjoy fighting."

"Any ideas how we're going to get past him?" she asked.

"Dropping something heavy on them from orbit tends to do the trick," he said. "But I guess we'll have to improvise."

At the Battlemaster's urging, the vorcha ran forward again, spraying their position with wild bursts of gunfire. Shepard's barrier flickered and rippled under the onslaught. Not for the first time, she wished she'd thought to bring a helmet with her. At least she had a weapon; a spare pistol that she'd grabbed from the _Resolute's_ armoury before leaving the Citadel and now drew from behind her back. It felt strange and unfamiliar in her hands, but at least it let her fight back while keeping her biotic reserves maintained. She doubted it would be much use against the krogan, but it worked well enough on the vorcha, whose desperate forward surge had left at half a dozen of them dead already.

Still, the vorcha assault, chaotic and undisciplined at it was, was pushing them back towards the end of the alleyway. _Right where the krogan want us_. Still, the krogan seemed to be holding back. It was as if they were content to keep them trapped in place. No doubt they had reinforcements on the way. All the krogan had to do was keep them where they were until those reinforcements arrived.

On cue, another biotic shockwave rolled down the alley, ripping bricks from the walls and throwing dust and soot into the air. It slammed against Shepard's barrier like a tidal wave; her head flared with the pain of keeping her barrier in place. _He's strong_ , she admitted to herself.

Biotics were rare among turians, and unheard of among humans before they'd settled on worlds beyond Earth. Shepard had met a few more powerful biotics: Saren, a few asari, arguably Nicollier back on the _Resolute_. But it was a rare thing; rare and frustrating. She was used to being the best. She had to be, or-

"Shepard." Even half-drowned out by the sound of gunfire, the concern in Vakarian's voice was obvious. "Are you doing okay?"

"I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this barrier up," she admitted.

"I've got a plan," he said. "Well, actually it's more of an idea - can you keep him busy for a few more minutes?"

Shepard nodded, hoping that she looked more confident than she felt. _I can do it_ , she told herself. The krogan was still raining down biotic blows on her barrier, but her defences were holding firm. Maybe it was time to see how could the krogan was at defending himself.

She blocked the next attack with her barrier, and the next, trying to get a sense of the krogan's timing. _Now._ Just before the next anticipated attack, in the split second she judged he'd be at his most vulnerable, she hit back with a biotic shockwave of her own, as hard as she could.

Her blast was enough to throw the vorcha crowding around him off their feet, and to send them sliding and wailing backwards, but the krogan only laughed again, hollow and mocking.

"I see your biotic knows more than one trick, turian" he called out. "Couple of centuries and she might even get good at it. Shame she won't live long enough for us to find out."

His counter-attack went higher than Shepard was expecting - over her barrier, crashing into the wall behind her. Glass fragments and brick rained down on them from above as the vorcha charged forward again.

"How's that plan going, Vakarian?" Shepard asked.

"I told you, it's more of an idea," said the Spectre. "But I think-"

The vorcha howled in unison, swarming past the krogan biotic. For a minute or more there was no time to talk: both of them focused solely on holding their position. One vorcha leapt through the air - she wasn't sure whether it had jumped or been thrown - and almost managed to scramble over the crate she was pressed up behind before Vakarian managed to shoot it.

Shepard nodded to Vakarian and turned back to face the vorcha when something flew over the makeshift barricade and bounced to a halt a few feet away from them. Something small and metallic and-

"Grenade!" she shouted, pulling up a barrier around herself and the turian just in time. The force of the explosion was still enough to knock them both backwards; she caught herself on the turian's arm with one hand, fingers of the other hand still splayed out in the usual mnemonic pattern.

Outside her barrier the grenade did more damage: the explosion smashed through their barricades, flames spreading out throughout the alleyway. Her head rang with the noise of the blast and and the whole ground seemed to shake and buckle.

 _Wait_ , she thought, _It's not just me, this is actually happening._

There was a splintering, breaking noise below them and then they were falling, slipping and sliding into the darkness as the ground gave way beneath their feet.

* * *

Shepard's old asari instructor had been fond of a trick which Shepard had never been able to pull off: jumping from a high place, she'd catch herself in a mass effect field as she fell, using her biotics to lower herself smoothly down before landing gently on her feet. She'd never expected any of her students to be able to do it and - although Shepard had practiced secretly for weeks in a vain attempt to prove the asari wrong - she'd not been surprised.

Luckily they didn't fall very far. Shepard had just enough time to try to raise her arms up to protect her head before she crashed into the ground below.

She picked herself up carefully: she'd landed on her side and it looked like her suit had absorbed most of the force of the impact. From the corner of her eye she saw Vakarian lift himself up as well: he had a few cuts and scrapes, but didn't seem to have any serious injuries either.

They'd fallen about ten feet, landing in a dark subsurface space. The only source of light came from the hole they'd fallen through, where the flames of the explosion still burned brightly in the pale and reflected light of Omega's perpetual twilight. It felt like this space had been here for some time. _At least it's dry, whatever it is,_ she thought. She hoped it wasn't a sewer.

("We need the turian alive, you idiots!" she heard the tall krogan bellow furiously above them. "I said no grenades!")

"What is this place?" she asked, looking around as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

"Some sort of access tunnel, I'd guess," Vakarian replied, "Look: on the far side, there's a ladder leading back up."

There was, she saw. Though the top of the ladder had sheared away from the wall after the explosion, and now jutted out into empty space. _Not that we'd want to go back up_.

Apart from the ladder, the only other way out seemed to be ahead of them: the tunnel stretched out into the darkness.

"We've got a couple of minutes before the krogan follow us down here," said Vakarian. "At least, I hope we do. Let's make the most of it."

They headed off at a brisk pace; marching away from the hole in the tunnel roof and into the unknown ahead.

"That krogan said his employer was after you, specifically." she said. "Any idea why?"

"No," he said, sounding puzzled. "I've never been to Omega before. Didn't realise I'd made any enemies powerful enough to hire krogan mercenaries on the off-chance that I would." He trailed off. mandibles twitching silently.

Shepard told herself they could try to figure this out later, after they'd escaped. Somebody had known that Vakarian would be coming to Omega, had known he'd be meeting Shol's asari contact. But who would have known that, and why would they care?

They kept moving in silence for a few more minutes. The tunnel seemed to be winding around slowly, turning them back in the direction they'd started to walk. Hopefully it reconnected to the surface soon, she thought. Hopefully they'd be able to get out before the krogan realised what had happened.

"What was your idea, anyway?" she asked Vakarian curiously.

"Well, ah," the turian said, "It's not important."

She shot a look at him, curiously., He sounded … _embarrassed?_

"Well," he said, reluctantly, after a few moments, "The wall behind us didn't look too stable. So I was thinking we could-"

"Wait," she interrupted. "You were going to suggest we blow the wall down, weren't you?"

She supposed it wasn't really that funny, but she couldn't help laughing at his reaction. The sound of her laughter reverberated strangely in the depth of the tunnel. And so did something else.

"Wait," she hissed, coming to a halt and listening more closely. "I think I hear something." A deep booming echo, voices almost on the edge of hearing.

"I hear it too," said Vakarian, grimly. "Krogan"

A few minutes later they emerged in a large, open space. _An old factory, maybe?_ She wasn't sure. The place was full of old, disused machinery: empty vats, leaking fuel canisters, rusting forklifts and loading mechs. Along the walls, steel walkways ran from side to side, with occasional stairs and ladders leading up. There were also two concrete stairwells built into the walls opposite: they seemed to head up to the top of the building. Two krogan were waiting in front of the stairs, standing guard. Neither of them was the biotic, but she couldn't be sure they were the same two krogan that had ambushed them in the alley earlier.

Vakarian and Shepard crouched carefully at the edge of the tunnel, just out of sight of the krogans.

It was obvious how the two of them had got in: a set of large steel doors, wide enough to drive a truck through. It was also obvious that the krogan had been busy since they arrived: a solid wall of rubble, shattered girders and debris now blocked the doors. It looked like it would take hours for them to shift it.

There didn't seem to be any obvious alternative exits, other than the tunnel they'd just left. And from the slowly increasing volume of the noises behind them, it was clear that the krogan biotic and vorcha were on their way. Shepard wasn't sure what they were going to do. _Lucky I brought a Spectre along_.

"I hate waiting," one of the krogan grumbled, loudly. "There's no sign of the turian or the biotic."

"Orders are orders," the other krogan growled in response. "Wait here, block all the exits and wait for Garm and the vorcha to flush the targets up out of the tunnel. And you know Garm will have our heads if the turian escapes again."

Shepard guessed that Garm was the krogan biotic they'd fought in the alley. A Battlemaster, Vakarian had called him. She wondered if the title meant that all krogan military leaders were biotics. The thought was oddly unsettling.

"Any idea who this 'Garm' is?" she asked Vakarian softly, hoping that her voice wouldn't carry so far as the krogans'.

Vakarian shook his head slowly, then got the slightly distant look Shepard had learned meant he was looking something up with his visor.

"Leader of the Blood Pack, apparently," he said. "Never heard of him myself."

Blood Pack territory, the krogan had called this place. She wondered if he'd known about the tunnels. It would explain why he'd known to send his troops to this building. _Unless there are more of them than we saw_ , she thought. _Unless they're spread out over several different buildings._

"The Blood Pack used to just be a minor vorcha gang," Vakarian continued, "Up until a few krogan exiles took over a few years back. These days they're one of the more powerful gangs on Omega, engaged in mercenary work and general criminal behaviour throughout the Terminus Systems. No surprise that they're not fond of turians, of course, but I don't know what their problem is with me specifically."

Shepard wasn't sure what the plan was now. If what the krogan had said could be believed, they weren't getting out this way. She doubted they could clear the rubble in front of the doors before Garm and the vorcha arrived. She looked back at Vakarian, raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Well," he said, "I've got an idea..."

* * *

The two krogan didn't see what hit them. One minute they were standing guard idly, the next minute they were both sprawling on the floor, their feet swept out from under them by a biotic shockwave. As they clambered to their feet, the biotic responsible ran past them, heading for the exit doors at first then darting away to the side. The krogan didn't stop to think, but with a roar they set off in pursuit.

Shepard risked a look back over her shoulder for a second. Both the krogan were behind her, closing in fast. _Just as we planned_. If everything else was going to plan, Vakarian had used her distraction to sneak into the stairwell, and was heading up. _If_. She wasn't sure what she'd do if he wasn't.

She forced herself to slow down, to turn around. She nodded to the two krogan calmly, teeth slightly bared. Krogan had evolved from pack animals, Vakarian had told her. Their instincts were to chase running prey, but their ancestors had never been the dominant predator on Tuchanka. If she could convince them she was a serious threat, they'd treat her more cautiously. They might eve-

One of the krogan lowered his head and charged straight at her, faster than she'd have guessed possible without Vakarian's warning earlier. Her fingers splayed out as she reached out and pulled, using the mercenaries momentum against him. She dropped to her knees in and rolled in a practiced motion, passing just under the snarling krogan as he flew up and over her and slammed head first into the concrete wall behind her.

The impact would have broken a turian or batarian's neck, but the krogan just picked himself up, scowled irritably, and turned around to try to find her again. _Vakarian was right,_ she thought. _This isn't going to be fun_.

⟨⟨ _I'm in. ⟩⟩_ His voice suddenly buzzed in her earpiece, the usual twin tones sounding oddly flat and compressed. _⟨⟨ Up on one of the top level walkways. I can see you now. No sign of Garm yet. ⟩⟩_

She risked a glance upwards and almost got hit by one of the krogan: a wild shotgun blast that deflected - barely - on the edge of her barrier. She spun around to face with him when a second shot rang out, from a different weapon, and she heard the krogan roar in shock and pain.

⟨⟨ _Scoped and dropped. ⟩⟩_ Vakarian crowed. _⟨⟨ Right between the eyes. ⟩⟩_

Despite the poor quality of the signal, she could almost see the Spectre smirking as he said it.

⟨⟨ _Huh. ⟩⟩_ he said, a few seconds later, sounding a lot less smug. _⟨⟨ Looks like that was just a flesh wound. Well, that's krogan regeneration for you. ⟩⟩_

Meanwhile, the other krogan had doubled behind her, trying to surround her. She had to use her barrier to block shots from both directions, and be alert for more charges from both her left and her right. She was running out of time and ideas. Garm and his vorcha would surely be arriving soon. She had to do something. Her fingers flexed aimlessly for a second or two while she tried to work out what to do next.

Her borrowed pistol rested at her side; good enough for vorcha, maybe, but not much use against krogan. Maybe she'd get somebody to teach her how to use a shotgun, once she was safely back on the _Resolute_.

⟨⟨ _There's some sort of fuel storage unit on your six. ⟩⟩_ Vakarian suggested suddenly. _⟨⟨ I can get a better angle if you try to lead them there. ⟩⟩_

Moving backwards was something she could do, at least. The next time the krogan pushed forwards, she let herself take a step more backwards than she would otherwise have done, then another. She couldn't just turn and run: the krogan would see that as a sign of weakness. Instead she forced herself to pace backwards, slowly, blocking shots with her barrier and flinging out shockwaves to keep the krogan distracted.

She almost walked right into the fuel tank Vakarian had identified. _That would have been embarrassing_. Only some last second instinct or barely processed peripheral glimpse stopped her.

The fuel tank seemed to be abandoned, though she couldn't tell how long for. Old pipes and cables still linked it to half a dozen machines scattered around the rest of the factory floor. She let her barrier fade, for a second, then with a curl of her left hand threw the krogan on her right hand side as hard as she could in the direction of the other one. It didn't do them any serious damage, but it sent them both sprawling for a crucial instant.

As the krogan picked themselves up, she scrambled under one of the pipes, putting the fuel tank between her and the two krogan. Without speaking, the two krogan split up, each coming around a different side towards her.

⟨⟨ _Got them. ⟩⟩_

Even as Vakarian's voice crackled in her ear, the sound of his sniper rifle rang out in the darkness. The shot flew just over the krogans' heads, embedding itself in one of the rusting pipes. Shepard didn't think either of them heard the faint noise of escaping gas. They exchanged a look, one of them shaking his head mockingly while the other shrugged. She didn't think they noticed her backing away either.

"See?" the first krogan said. "The turian cannot even hit a simple targe-"

That was when the second shot flew past him, striking a spark which ignited the gas that had been leaking from the pipe. Within a second everything around the fuel tank was surrounded in flame. Everything including the krogan. Vakarian had warned her that this might not be enough: krogan could regenerate burnt skin and damaged organs, survive fires that would have killed members of other species a dozen times over. If they could put the fires out.

Shepard's fingers twitched and curled as she reached out and pulled, strands of dark energy webbing around the two burning figures and setting them both drifting helplessly up into the air, still consumed in flames. They struggled, for a while, but there was no escape, no way of quenching the fires that still consumed them.

The screaming lasted a lot longer than Shepard had expected.

* * *

She caught up with Vakarian again a few minutes later, up on the top floor of the building. This floor looked like it had been an office space, she thought, though all the furniture had been stripped out long ago. Al that was left were some stained carpets, dusty walls and a few large glass windows, opening out onto the darkness of Omega seven floors down.

"Well, that was the easy part," the turian said grimly. "Now we've really made him angry."

They could hear Garm and the surviving vorcha below. The krogan was barking out orders furiously, punctuated with the occasional biotic flare or shotgun blast. The vorcha's voices rang out in response: echoing back orders or whimpering in pain after one of the gun blasts.

"Ready?" asked Vakarian quietly.

She nodded. This was the part of the plan she was most worried about. But she'd not been able to suggest anything that the turian thought was more likely to work. _This will work_ , she told herself. It would have to.

Vakarian was already heading down the stairs, back to the main floor.

Garm and the vorcha could still be heard moving around downstairs, but they weren't in her line of sight. A sudden frenzied howl suggested to Shepard that they'd found the bodies of the other two krogan.

Vakarain reached the bottom of the stairs sooner than she'd expected, and she twitched her fingers, waiting.

Vakarian leaned out of the stairwell, sniper rifle on his shoulder, and squeezed the trigger gently. The sudden frenzied cry of the vorcha almost drowned out the bellow of the krogan. Vakarian leaned out of the stairwell and called out something she couldn't hear. Whatever it was, it didn't make Garm any calmer.

There was a brief exchange of shots: the rhythmic fire of Vakarian's pistol interspered with the krogan's shotgun blasts and biotic flares. Then Vakarian ducked back inside the stairwell, Outside she could hear the noise of the vorcha growing louder and louder. ⟨⟨ _Ready. ⟩⟩_ Vakarian signalled.

This time when she twitched her fingers she reached out and pulled him up - hard and fast, pulling him up to the top level faster than any of the pursuing vorcha could hope to chase him. Garm himself had just reached the bottom of the stairwell when the grenades Vakarian had left behind exploded, the blast peppering the krogan and the vorcha alike with lethal steel fragments.

The noise Garm made was something between laughter and a howl. The surviving vorcha flooded up the stairwell, a tide of grey skin, bared teeth and blood red eyes. The Battlemaster was right behind them, barrier in full force, shotguns carried in both hands.

He looked up and saw Shepard and Vakarian, peering down at him from the upper levels. He bared his teeth triumphantly, eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"Nice try, turian, but there's nowhere to run now." he called up. "This is the end."

"Yes," said Vakarian slowly, as the vorchas' wild shots ricocheted around the stairwell, most flying wide and the others bouncing harmlessly off Shepard's barrier. "I think it is."

At his signal, Shepard flung up a barrier again and Vakarian flipped the detonator he'd been holding onto behind his back.

Above them, where the turian had positioned them before Shepard's arrival, all of Vakarian's remaining grenades detonated at once, and the roof above the stairwell collapsed in on itself in a ball of flame and dust. Tons of concrete, pipework and other rubble fell into the stairwell, slamming into the stairs, which buckled and then broke under the impact. The upper stairs gave way first, crashing down in turn on the stairs below them, which crumpled and collapsed in turn. The krogan and the vorcha had nowhere to run.

The screaming of the despairing vorcha was almost drowned out by the sound of panicked gunfire and the roaring curses of the krogan. Almost. But after a few minutes, the deluge of masonry and metalwork came to a halt, and the sound of the vorcha died away, replaced by the quiet crackle of flames.

The turian peered down into the wreckage of the stairwell.

"Well, it's not quite orbital bombardment," he said, "But I guess it's close enough."

The two of them stood silently on the upper floor for several minutes, looking down at the rubble. Shepard let her barrier drop, exhausted. It had been a long time since she'd had to push herself so hard. _Getting soft_ , she told herself ruefully. _Too much time knocking down targets in cargo holds, not enough time trying to really push yourself_.

She almost couldn't believe they'd done it. They were alive. _But Doctor Thanoptis…_ She didn't know what they'd do now that Shol's contact was dead. Back to the Citadel, maybe? The volus billionaire had to have other leads, other options. After a few deep breaths she looked up at the turian, and frowned at what she saw.

"Vakarian … you're bleeding."

"Huh," the turian looked down at his right arm, where a thin streak of blue blood was slowly dripping from a hole in his armoured suit. "Didn't even feel it. One of the vorcha must have got off a lucky-"

The shockwave hit him with enough force that Shepard felt it her bones.

One minute Vakarian was standing a foot away from her, peering curiously at the wound on his arm, the next he was sliding and tumbling on his back, rolling and crashing into one of the few upright walls left in the building. Pieces of debris picked up by the blast clattered and rattled about the floor around him. The whole building seemed to shake, dust and soot rising up like mist.

She turned around to Garm pulling himself out of the ruined stairwell with with bare hands, dragging himself over the corpses of his vorcha troops, face contorted with unthinking rage. As he reached the top floor, he bellowed wordlessly, lowered his head, and charged. Vakarian, dazed, had just staggered to his feet when eight hundred pounds of armoured krogan slammed into him at full speed. The turian went flying backwards, crashing back to the ground like a rag doll. He struggled to stand again, but fell back to the floor, breathing heavily, legs bent at an unnatural angle.

For an instant time seemed to stand still. Vakarian lying helpless on the floor, the dead and dying vorcha in the rubble, the krogan turning to face her - teeth bared, eyes wide and black and empty - they all seemed to be frozen, unreal. For an instant, she could feel nothing but the beating of her heart, the taste of blood in her mouth. _I am my tho_ -

Then Garm had Shepard by the throat. She kicked out, pushing at him with her biotics, but his grip only tightened, lifting her helplessly up the ground while she fought for breath.

"The Shadow Broker's paying a whole lot of credits for you, turian", he said, ignoring Shepard's increasingly desperate struggles. "Didn't say anything about a human sidekick though. Lucky for me. Never got to kill a human before."

"Wait-" she didn't know whether it was her voice or Vakarian's that cried out. Garm ignored it either way.

"Time to fly, pyjak," he snarled, slamming her one-handed through the glass window behind her.

Shepard felt the window panes shattering around her: fragments of broken glass flying past her face, cutting her cheek and stinging her eyes. She felt the sudden shock of the cold air outside as she hung for an instant over the precipice, feet kicking useless at the empty air She felt the krogan's grip around her throat loosen, then release; saw his crooked grin widen for an instant as she fell away into the darkness. She felt the wind in her ears as the ground below rushed up to meet her.

Then nothing.


	11. Omega 4

"-ultiple fractures. But no sign of intracranial hemorrhage. No sign of brain parenchymal damage or of ..."

Everything hurt. That was important though, that meant something. She just couldn't remember what. The words she was hearing - spoken rapidly, urgently - meant something too. But it hurt to think, hurt to pay too much attention. Easier to just let the grey mist roll over her and through her; easier to ignore everything else.

 _I'm alive_ , she thought suddenly. _It hurts - I hurt - so I'm alive._

"-and apply medi-gel. Also possible pneumothorax - need to …"

She forced her eyes open. The light was too bright; she blinked back sudden tears. She wasn't immediately sure where she was: her head was full of images of fighting, running - nightmarish creatures stalking through tunnels, cities on fire on the horizon. For a moment she wasn't sure what was memory and what was dream.

She was lying on an unfamiliar bed in a room she'd never set foot in before. That seemed bad. She wasn't immediately sure what she'd done to end up here. _I'm on Omega_ , she told herself. _We were fighting krogans, then …_

Her amp was gone. Somebody must have taken it while she was unconscious. That was definitely bad. Her pistol was gone too, and she'd been dressed in unfamiliar clothes that didn't seem designed for a human body.

Soldiers of the Hierarchy weren't supposed to be captured alive. If they were, they were expected to make their captors regret it. _Resist by all means available_ , she recited to herself. She could almost hear the voice of the old turian drill sergeant barking the orders at her and her fellow recruits in basic training. _Escape if you can, or hinder the enemy to the best of your ability. Never cooperate. Never give up._ _Never lose faith in your unit._

Without an amp or a weapon, the best of her ability wasn't likely to be much, she suspected. But she could still fight, if she had to. She took a deep breath. At least the air smelled comfortingly normal: sterile and disinfected. Almost like being back on board a ship.

The voice she'd been hearing in the background was that of a salarian, she realised. It seemed oddly familiar. _But where-_

"Awake? Excellent!"

The salarian suddenly loomed over her shoulder. She hadn't realised just how close he was. This close, she could see that his face bore old scars; possibly the result of the same accident that had cost him a horn. She felt sure the face should be familiar, and yet...

"Hello again," he said. "Might not recall; spoke briefly outside Afterlife. Told you about clinic. Surprised to see you here so soon. Wish it were in better circumstances."

She remembered him now. _Gozu District_. She didn't think he was with the Blood Pack. But she didn't think she remembered his name. And she couldn't make sense of his presence. The last thing she remembered was ... her head swam, the whole room seeming to spin slightly. She remembered falling.

The salarian, whatever his name, frowned as she tried - and failed - to sit upright.

"Suggest avoiding undue physical exertion," he said, reprovingly, "Have experienced significant trauma. Combat injuries, fall from great height-"

"... name ..." she whispered. Her throat burned with the effort of speaking, of swallowing after.

"Memory loss?" the salarian looked concerned. "No evidence of cognitive damage in scans. Saw strange beta wave patterns, but no evidence of connection to recent injuries. Dismissed as benign. Suspect-"

 _Not my name_ , she thought, trying to shake her head. "... yours … " she managed to cough, hating how feeble she sounded. She tried to sit up again, this time with slightly more success.

The salarian brightened. "Ah, of course. Forgot to introduce myself at previous opportunity. Professor Mordin Solus, at your service. Welcome to Gozu District."

Sitting up had made her dizzy again. She sat on the bed - _No,_ she realised, _The operating table_ \- quietly, letting the salarian's words wash over her and looking around the room. The walls were painted white; though mostly covered in shelves and other storage units. She could see scanners, surgical equipment and medi-gel dispensers, among other devices that she couldn't identify. The ceiling was higher than she'd expected, covered with fluorescent light strips that hurt her eyes when she stared at them. There weren't any windows. No way out of the room except a single metal door on the far side of the room.

Her fingers twitched uselessly at her side as the salarian spoke, describing the scope of her injuries in rather more detail than she'd have liked. But she noted he didn't say anything about how she'd been brought here. She frowned, still trying to put things together herself. _The Blood Pack_ , she told herself. _They killed Shol's asari contact. Tried to kill us - no, tried to kill me._ They'd wanted Vakarian alive.

The big krogan, Garm. _The biotic_. He'd said something about the Shadow Broker, hadn't he? He'd said - she had a sudden visceral memory of krogan fingers around her throat, a moment of panic as the white walls suddenly loomed oppressively close and she forgot how to breathe.

The salarian paused, looked at her carefully. "Should consider yourself fortunate, in truth."

"Don't feel … fortunate," she croaked, forcing the words out despite the pain.

"Fortunate!" he insisted. "Given extent of injuries, must have fallen a considerable distance. Falls from heights often fatal, even with biotic protection. Landed well; limited damage to skull or spinal column. As noted, still some damage to other organs: spleen, liver, but - query: do all humans only have one- no, no, not urgent, another time."

" .. where … turian?" she managed.

"Turian?" The salarian looked blank. "No sign of any turians where you were recovered. Found dead vorcha, two dead krogan, but no turians."

The krogan had wanted to capture the turian Spectre, not to kill him, she reminded herself. Perhaps he was still on Omega. Perhaps there was still time to rescue him. She looked around the room again, head still groggy. Nothing on the walls to give any sense of how much time had passed. It didn't feel like she'd been unconscious for more than an hour or two, but … was that enough time for her to have been found, brought to the clinic, and examined? She wasn't sure it was.

"How long …" she started to ask. The salarian started replying before she finished.

"Not long - recovery remarkably rapid." he said, "Only brought in three days ago."

 _Three days_. Her heart sank. That was more than enough time for the Blood Pack to have taken their prisoner off-world and through a mass relay. He could be anywhere now, even if he wasn't in the Shadow Broker's clutches yet. _I'm sorry Vakarian_ she thought, bleakly.

The salarian continued talking, but she'd stopped listening. Especially when the door on the other side of the room opened and a monster walked inside. The doctor - _Mordin Solus_ , she reminded herself - followed her stare across the room, and trailed off.

"Problems with my assistant?" he asked.

"I …" she started. She couldn't help staring.

"My fault," Solus continued rapidly, "Should have realised. Inter-species relations between humans and batarians understandably strained at present. Should apologise to you both for any, ah, awkwardness. Jella," - that must have been the batarian's name, she realised - "Suggest you wait outside."

Shepard thought she saw a flash of resentment in the batarian's eyes, but she nodded and backed back out of the room all the same.

"Jella the one who found you, actually," said Solus after a slightly strained pause. "Called me at once. Good assistant; hard worker, resourceful. Likely saved your life."

Shepard wondered if the batarian had been the one to undress her after she'd been brought to the clinic. She really hoped not. Just the idea was enough to make her skin crawl.

"Where's … my amp?" she asked. Speaking was getting easier now, she thought.

The salarian frowned slightly. "Ah, yes. Had to remove amp - standard precaution when treating unconscious biotic individuals. Happy to return now, of course, though suggest not refitting until recovered."

The doctor turned around to examine the shelves, and Shepard experimentally slid her feet down to the floor.

"Careful on that leg," the salarian warned, back still to her. "Broken in three places when you arrived, plus significant ancillary muscle and ligament damage. Should be fully recovered in a few weeks, thanks to surgery, but might have a slight limp until then."

 _That's okay, doc,_ she thought. _I never was much of a dancer anyway_. It didn't matter if she limped or not. She just had to be able to move forward.

"Amp design underwhelming, frankly," he added, still rummaging in the boxes stacked alongside the wall. "Turian implementation of outdated asari principles; functional, of course, but plenty of scope for improvement, redesign … aha."

He pulled something out of one of the boxes: a sealed plastic case with her amp inside. He handed it over to her with a small bow, and Shepard eyed it warily. She didn't want anyone 'redesigning' her amp, however outdated they claimed it was. She'd have said as much, but the salarian hadn't stopped speaking. She got the impression he never did, with or without an audience.

"By the way, curious. Didn't realise any human languages were excluded from Citadel translation program."

They weren't, as far as Shepard knew: at least, not any languages that anybody in Council space spoke. Not all the languages of Old Earth had spread to the colonies before the Charon relay went dark, but anything still spoken by humans on this side of the galaxy should been archived by the Council long ago. _Almost anything_. She had a feeling she wouldn't like where this was going.

"You slept, after treatment," Solus continued, "Still under medical observation of course. Heard you call something out. Dreaming. Didn't recognise language; translators couldn't identify either. Recording available, if interested."

 _Not again_ , she thought. At least it wasn't another attack like the one she'd had back on the Citadel. Things had happened so fast after they found Doctor Thanoptis that she'd still not really had the time to come to terms with the fact that nobody was going be looking at her head anytime soon. _Except that y_ _ou're talking to a medical expert right now,_ she chided herself. Shol's paranoia made it easy to start thinking of what had happened to her as a secret, something that couldn't be discussed with anyone else. But if there was anything that Professor Solus could do to help...

"It's a long story, doc," she said slowly, hoping it wouldn't make her sound as crazy as Shol. "I was on an away mission recently on a human colony world, Eden Prime. A terrorist group had dug up something … old. It did something, messed with my head a little."

"Ah!" the salarian's eyes brightened. "Exposure to ancient artefact - Prothean in origin? Could explain beta wave pattern identified earlier."

She blinked. That wasn't the response she'd been expecting. Somehow she doubted the doctor got many reports of exposure to Prothean artefacts in his clinic on Omega. Suddenly Shol's paranoia didn't seem so ridiculous after all.

"Renewed interest in subject over last few years," the salarian said thoughtfully, "Find it hard to understand motivation.. No significant new findings or publications in last few decades. Unless classified, of course. Interest primarily seen among turians and allied species, which suggests … hmm."

The salarian paused thoughtfully, and they were both quiet for a minute. Shepard stared wordlessly at the amp in her hands. She didn't know what she was going to do next. She could probably get a public transport shuttle back to Council space, she thought. She still had a few credits to her name, after all, and relations between the Terminus System and the Council weren't bad enough to prevent all traffic. Once in Council space, she could make her way to the Citadel, or to the nearest Hierarchy base, explain what had happened. Make this somebody else's problem.

"Know anybody on Omega?" Mordin asked, breaking the silence. "Anybody you want to contact, perhaps communicate with while recovering?"

She didn't know anybody on Omega, of course. She didn't know anybody in the Terminus systems, except perhaps for a handful of Hierarchy military personnel who might be raiding Hegemony space. _Well,_ she told herself, _You know Ish_. The salarian who had set them up was hardly her first choice for conversation though. At least not the sort of conversation he'd end up walking away from.

She felt so tired. Even leaning up against the operating table seemed to be exhausting. She wasn't sure she could make it to the door right now, let alone a shuttle bay. _And Vakarian…_ She tried to imagine reporting back to the Council that the turian had been captured by hostiles and she'd chosen to run away. She didn't think they'd take it well. She didn't think she'd take it well, either.

 _Never give up_ , she reminded herself. Even if the odds were against rescuing him, she had to try. If the Spectre was still on Omega, she'd find him. And she knew where to start.

"Afterlife," she said, hoping that she sounded more confident than she felt. "I want to talk to Aria."

* * *

Aria, it turned out, still didn't want to talk to her.

She'd made it out of the clinic later that day, after Solus finally pronounced her sufficiently recovered to venture outside. Her armour had been damaged beyond repair - and cracked in several places as a result of her fall, as the salarian had been at pains to point out - but he'd surprised her by opening up some storage lockers to reveal a nearly complete set of almost undamaged mercenary armour: turian in design, but just about able to be customised to fit.

A donation, he'd described it as. She decided not to ask him about the burn marks.

He'd also insisted on accompanying her all the way to Afterlife. That was a less pleasant surprise.

"Still convalescing," he said, when she protested. "Not to mention possible side-effects of exposure to Prothean technology. Important not to overexert yourself. Can offer medical support if necessary."

She'd been pulling the borrowed armour on when the batarian slipped into the back of the room. Shepard hadn't acknowledged her, had refused to look at her. She'd looked at herself in a mirror on the wall instead. Her reflection had looked back at her steadily, looking calmer than she felt. She'd picked up a few bruises, she'd noted absently, and her hair was unwashed and uncombed, but she'd mostly recognised the face that frowned back at her.

She'd also been able to see the batarian, reflected in the corner of the mirror, still staring at her silently from the corner of the room. For a minute she'd thought the batarian - she wouldn't use her name, even in the privacy of her head - was going to leave without speaking. She'd moved back towards the door she'd entered by, but paused before stepping outside.

"I saw you falling," she'd said suddenly, her voice softer than Shepard had expected. "There was fighting in the old factory. I saw you fall."

In the mirror, the batarian's head had tilted to the right in a familiar gesture. But Shepard had found herself unable to match her body language to her tone; she hadn't been sure what she was hearing there. The batarian assistant's voice had been oddly quiet, her words pitched low but clear and precise.

"Halfway down," she'd continued, "You just stopped falling - at least for a second or two. You hung in the air, floated, and you shone like blue fire. I've never seen anything like it."

The batarian had slipped back out of the door before Shepard could respond. But she'd recognised the tone; it had been the same one she sometimes heard in the voices of the new recruits. _I don't remember_ , she'd thought, numbly. It felt wrong to earn respect for actions you couldn't remember afterwards.

Doctor Solus had arrived to lead her to Afterlife a few minutes later, and once they were airborne she did her best to put the whole thing from her mind..

The cab set them down on the promenade, right outside the club. Shepard guessed that they were only a few feet from where they'd first met, while she'd been waiting for Vakarian to finish his meeting with Aria. She wasn't planning on waiting outside this time.

She strode up towards the entrance as confidently as she could. The elcor bouncer on duty - she couldn't tell if he was the same one from her previous visit - watched her impassively, only speaking when she was almost face to face with him.

"Observation: you have been fighting."

The elcor looked her slowly up and down, pausing slightly to take in her scars, her limp, and her burnt and borrowed armour.

"Additional observation," he said. "Probably not well."

"Yeah, well," she muttered, "You should see the other guys."

"Witheringly", the elcor drawled slowly, "If they look anything like you, I would much rather not." Elcor weren't supposed to be able to convey emotions through spoken word - that was the whole reason they needed the translators to add emotional context - but Shepard was sure he sounded smug.

She just rolled her eyes in response. _Spirits save me from elcor who think they're amusing_. "Can I go in?" she said, impatiently. "I have to speak to Aria. It's about-"

"Insincerely," the elcor interrupted, "I regret to say that Aria has left strict instructions that you are not to be allowed in. Under any circumstances."

She paused, momentarily nonplussed. _Now what?_

"Ah," beside her, Professor Solus cleared his throat. "Would be happy to talk with Aria on your behalf. Though would need to know details of request, of course."

He paused, expectantly. Shepard wasn't sure what to say. _What was I going to say?_

The truth was she didn't have a plan, not really. She'd told herself that Aria could help - if the Queen of Omega didn't know where to find the Blood Pack, who would? But she'd not really stopped to ask herself why Aria would want to help. She didn't have anything to offer in trade; any threats she could make would be laughably empty. She frowned, trying to think.

"Human." an unfriendly voice growled behind them.

Shepard had only half-turned to face the speaker when the voice spoke again. This time it sounded much less hostile, and much more surprised.

"... Shepard?"

The speaker was a female turian; shorter than average height, with a thick red stripe painted down the centre of her face. There was something familiar about the way she stood that seemed familiar to Shepard, but she wasn't able to place it.

"Have we met?" she asked slowly.

The turian's mandibles twitched, almost as if she was amused, but her eyes didn't change.

"Once or twice," she said with a shrug. "I wouldn't expect you to remember."

Shepard wasn't sure how to respond to that. The turian looked at her carefully.

"Nyreen Kandros," she introduced herself. "I … well, these days I help solve problems for Aria."

Shepard had the impression that she'd planned to say something else. But she didn't think she'd get anywhere if she tried to press the issue. _But if she knows Aria,,,_

"Maybe you'd be able to help solve this problem," she said instead. "I came here with a turian Spectre, he-"

"Vakarian?" Kandros said. "I'm afraid Aria won't be helping you with that one." She sounded frustrated, almost angry.

"Wait," Shepard was confused. "You know what happened to him?"

"The Shadow Broker happened to him," replied Kandros flatly. She looked over Shepard's shoulder, at the elcor bouncer and the salarian doctor, then beckoned Shepard closer.

The two of them walked a few steps further into the darkness, stopping only when Kandros coughed delicately.

"You've walked into a bad situation," she said, almost apologetically. "Normally, Aria wouldn't stand for the Shadow Broker trying anything here. The Broker's always seeing how far he can push; trying to subvert Aria's agents or spy on her operations. That sort of thing doesn't endear you to Aria. She tends to react ... violently."

An incongruous half-smile passed swiftly over the turian's face.

"But this time-" Kandros cut herself off, eyes narrowing slowly as if she was afraid she'd said too much.

"This place has a bad spirit," she muttered softly instead. Shepard nodded, although she wasn't sure if the comment was directed at her. If she'd ever been anywhere with a bad spirit, this was it.

"By the way," Kandros said quietly, "Do you know who the salarian you came here with is?"

"The salarian?" she said, confused. "He's just a doctor, isn't he? Helped patch me up after…" she trailed off.

"Mordin Solus," Kandros nodded. "He's a doctor all right, among other things. Ex-STG. Aria ran a background check on him when he arrived. Had me put quite the background dossier together. Claims he came out to spend his retirement on Omega; don't ask me why he thought that was a good idea."

Shepard blinked. She'd heard any number of stories about the salarian Special Task Groups over the years. Though the Salarian Union never made official announcements about the STG's work, they were popularly credited with a number of sensational clandestine operations. They operated - so far as she knew - in much the same way as the Council's Spectres, or the Hierarchy's own Blackwatch program. Mordin Solus was not what she'd expected.

 _Salarians are weird_ , she thought - she didn't realised she'd also muttered it aloud until she saw Kandros nod in reply, mandibles flickering in amusement.

"Well," Shepard said, "Thanks for letting me know, anyway." She'd have to find some other way to help Vakarian, she told herself. She was about to walk away, had actually taken a step towards Solus, when the turian's voice called her back into the shadows.

"I said Aria wouldn't help you," Kandros said. "I never said I wouldn't."

Shepard waited, cautiously. Kandros seemed to take that as an invitation to elaborate.

"The Blood Pack are holding your young Spectre in one of their hideouts in Kenzo District. It's not far from here."

"Can you tell me where it is?" she asked, trying to hide how pleased the news made her. This was more than she'd hoped for. Vakarian was still alive. She could still rescue him. _Somehow_.

"I could tell you," Kandros said, "But I was planning to show you."

"Show me?" she asked.

"If we move quickly, we can be at the Blood Pack hideout in an hour. I've got the building mapped out: we can hit them hard and be out before they realise what's happening."

"Just the two of us?" Shepard said, dubiously.

"Two biotics," said Kandros confidently. "So we outnumber them where it counts. Besides-"

"Unacceptable!" Solus's voice rang out suddenly, much closer than Shepard had expected. "As medical practitioner overseeing recuperation, cannot countenance this. Foolhardy plan. Dangerous.".

He coughed, delicately, and Shepard thought she saw him smile slightly. "Of course, if there were three of us, assessment might be different..."

After a moment Kandros nodded, ruefully. "The Professor would be useful," she admitted. "And I know he can handle himself."

This felt like too much. Shepard looked at Kandros closely, trying to remember where and how they might have met. _Could this be a set-up?_ She couldn't make sense of it if it was. Why would anybody go to all this trouble?

"Why?" she asked, finally. "Not that I'm ungrateful, but ... why help?"

"You were on Torfan," said Kandros, after slightly too long a pause. "It would be-"

Her mandibles twitched, betraying an emotion that Shepard couldn't quite identify. "-an honour."

Shepard nodded slowly, telling herself she'd push harder for answers if and when they'd got Vakarian out. She looked over her companions thoughtfully. If Kandros was a biotic, and Solus really was ex-STG, then maybe they had a chance after all.

They weren't the team she'd have chosen - she'd have given a lot to have Jennifer Nicollier at her back, and maybe Lilihierax or Sidonis as well - but it was more than she'd expected. More than she deserved. _Hold on, Vakarian,_ she thought. _Help is on the way_.


	12. Omega 5

| Two Days Ago |

"Vakarian," she said, "You're bleeding."

Shepard sounded worried. He turned to look back at her: gray eyes round and wide, unplated skin creased with a frown. She looked small, helpless; it was hard to believe he'd just seen her go toe to toe with two krogan at once.

He was about to say something flippant when some sixth sense warned him of danger behind him. Smoothly, without even pausing for breath, he spun around, pistol raised and - almost without thinking - fired a single shot, right between the red flat eyes of the krogan Battlemaster who had just crawled up to the top of the stairwell behind him. The krogan fell backwards, a stunned look on his face. Vakarian sauntered over to the edge, looking down at the krogan's lifeless body below.

"It's not quite orbital bombardment," he drawled, "but-"

He wasn't ready for the sudden blast of biotic energy the struck him in the back, pushing him inexorably towards the edge, feet slipping and sliding until his legs buckled and he dropped to his knees, still sliding forwards.

His pistol and his rifle clattered over the side, one after the other, metallic echoes filling the air as they bounced off concrete walls and fell down through the black space below. Faster than he could have believed, he was hanging over the edge himself, talons scrambling for purchase on the edge of the stairwell.

Looking back up he saw Shepard, hand still extended outwards, wreathed in blue energy, staring down at him contemptuously. Her dark hair fluttered in the breeze that blew up from the stairwell shaft, and the long scar down her face seemed to glow blood red beneath her skin. She grinned at him humorlessly, pale face breaking open wider than he could have imagined to reveal a set of sharp, yellowing fangs.

"Now we're even," she growled as she stamped on his hands with a heavy boot, hard enough to shatter bone.

He fell for a long time, down into the darkness.

* * *

Everything was black. In the silence, he could hear his heart, pounding wildly.

 _Oh, right._ Memory returned a few seconds after consciousness. _That's not what happened_.

He was still in the same dark room he'd been left to fall asleep in. Still cuffed to the same hard metal chair he'd been sitting in since he arrived, legs twisted around awkwardly in a way they weren't supposed to bend. And Shepard was still - he didn't let himself finish the thought. _You never saw a body_ , he told himself firmly. He wasn't going to think about Shepard.

A door opened, dim red light spilling into the room.

"Turian," a voice growled. "We have questions."

He didn't recognise the speaker. A krogan, of course, but not the Battlemaster.

"Can it wait for a bit?" he asked, as nonchalantly as he could force himself to be. "I'm in the middle of som-"

Garrus didn't see the krogan move. One minute he was sitting down, legs bent unnaturally, hands chained behind his back. The next minute he was lying on the floor, still chained to the chair, staring up at the ceiling, a blinding pain in his jaw. _I think that broke a tooth_ , he thought, feeling around the inside of his mouth carefully with his tongue.

"Don't try to be funny, turian," the krogan warned. "I've never laughed at a live turian before, and you won't be the first."

Garrus didn't say anything in response to that. _Hard to trade wisecracks when your mouth's full of blood_. The krogan seemed to approve. With a grunt, he picked up Garrus's chair and hauled it - and Garrus - back upright.

"There's no point trying to play tough," the krogan rumbled. "Shadow Broker will be picking you up soon."

The Shadow Broker. He remembered warning Shepard about the Broker. It seemed like a long time ago. Nihlus - his old mentor on the Spectre training program - had warned him that the Broker had eyes everywhere, even at the highest level of the Council. Even among the Spectres.

Nihlus had been determined to one day learn the Shadow Broker's true identity - to expose him, to disrupt his networks of blackmail and bribery, to break his influence over Council space. He'd not made any progress in all his time as a Spectre, as far as Garrus knew. Even the Shadow Broker's species was still a mystery. Given his long tenure, the Broker could have been a krogan or an asari, or course. But his behaviour - plotting and hiding and acting only through intermediaries - wasn't what anybody would expect from a krogan. And he didn't act much like an asari either: captured agents of the Shadow Broker, despite not having met him in person, were all insistent that the Broker was male, short-tempered, and largely indifferent about the fortunes of the Asari Republics.

That left the more oddball theories: there were people who insisted that the Shadow Broker was really a rogue AI, or that 'Shadow Broker' was a ceremonial title that had been passed down by a clan of volus for generations, or that the Broker belonged to some exotic alien species previously unknown to the galactic community.

Nobody really knew for sure, just as nobody knew anything about where the Broker was based or how he'd managed to elude capture for so long. Nobody except the Broker himself and (perhaps?) the Broker's closest confidantes. But Nihlus had told Garrus that one day, he'd face the Shadow Broker and unmask him.

It seemed that Garrus might be meeting the Shadow Broker himself before that happened.

Somehow he doubted it was a meeting he'd survive to tell anybody about.

He wondered if Nihlus had been able to confirm their suspicions of Vasir since the last time they'd spoken. Wondered if she was the reason the Shadow Broker was after him. She'd been on Eden Prime, after all, knew what had happened with the Prothean artefacts uncovered by Shol's team of archaeologists. _But why me?_ That was the part that didn't make sense. If Vasir was behind this, then surely she'd have pointed out Shepard as the target of interest. It was Shepard who had touched the artefact; Shepard who had seen the beacon's visions; Shepard who -

He remembered that he was trying hard not to think about Shepard.

"We were just paid to hand you over," the krogan continued. "No questions asked. But that asari we found waiting for you-" - he grinned unpleasantly - "-well, she was full of stories, that one."

 _Probably not best to dwell on that too much_ , Garrus thought. From the state of the body, Rana Thanoptis had not met a kind end.

"Stories about Prothean artefacts, alien messages, … and you were right in the middle of it all. With a head full of Prothean secrets our asari friend was just waiting to unlock."

 _They think I'm the one who activated the beacon_. He was confused. It was - well, it was true, in a way, of course. He had been the one to … turn it on, he supposed. To trigger it. But he wasn't the one who'd been exposed to the strange burst of energy it released. Not the one who'd been afflicted with visions of fire and premonitions of doom.

"I do hope the asari wasn't a close friend," the krogan said with a crooked grin that made clear he hoped the opposite. "She tried to be brave. At first. A shame that the asari have grown soft over the last few centuries. Weak."

Garrus's father had told him about a particularly bad case once. A mercenary visiting the Citadel had been hired to find some stolen corporate secrets. Somehow she'd picked up the idea that the thief was hiding out among the Citadel's resident quarian population; nobody had ever really been able to work out why.

C-Sec had only had any idea something was wrong after the mercenary had been on the Citadel for several days. By that point she'd abducted and 'interrogated' several of the station's transient quarian population: it was hard to know when she'd started because normally C-Sec didn't keep track of all its undocumented residents and those residents weren't in a hurry to file missing person reports.

It was only after one of the hanar diplomats had reported rumours of someone preying on the quarians that anybody in authority took action. C-Sec officers managed to catch the mercenary in the act a few days after that first report. By this point she'd only become more convinced of her theory - after all, every single one of the quarians had confessed, after sufficiently vigorous 'interrogation'.

"Though she did admit," his father added wryly,"That it was something of a mystery why the quarians insisted on subsiding on nutrient paste and sleeping in emergency shelters when they were hoarding billions of credits worth of industrial espionage."

So Garrus didn't doubt that the asari had told the Blood Pack everything they'd wanted to hear, whatever she thought would make the pain stop. Just like the quarians his father had told him about. _Just like I would_ , he thought. He didn't have any illusions about his abilities on that front, at least.

"Well, please yourself," the krogan shrugged, when several minutes had passed without Garrus speaking in response. "You're heading for the Broker either way. Just wanted to give you a chance to make your last few hours on Omega comfortable."

With that, the krogan stalked back out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Garrus was left in the dark. Alone with his thoughts. _Hard to think of worse company right now._

They'd all had to learn to recite the words in boot camp. _Never give up. Never lose faith in your unit_. But of course, Spectres didn't have a unit. Spectres were on their own.

* * *

| Eleven Years Ago | Palaven |

It was the last day they'd all be together as a family.

If he'd known that, he might have let his sister win their shooting contest. Or perhaps not: she'd come back from her first real tour full of stories of boarding captured pirate ships and of firefights with krogan mercs. They'd been peers when she'd left for boot camp over a year ago, equals; he was still trying to work out the parameters of their new relationship. Despite his bravado when he'd issued his challenge, he'd been secretly shocked, and (less secretly) delighted that he could still beat her.

"Impressed?" he asked, not for the first time, as they were leaving the firing range and heading back to their parents' home.

"You're not a bad shot," she admitted with obvious reluctance. "But-"

"I'm a great shot, Sol" he said firmly. "And I'm only going to get better."

It was a warm summer day, the afternoon sun hanging heavy in the lower half of the sky. Walking through the streets of Cipritine he felt oddly energised, almost invincible. He and Solana followed the wide paved thoroughfares of the city, winding past ornate colonnades that fronted the half-submerged entrances to ancient air raid shelters. They were just passing under the shadow of the old basilica when Solana finally asked him if he'd decided where we hoped to serve once he became a full citizen.

"I was thinking of applying for the Spectre recruitment program once I've completed basic," he admitted. He hadn't told anybody else yet; it felt oddly daring to say it out loud.

Officially, of course, there were no Spectre training programs as such. 'Spectres are not trained, but chosen,' as the Council liked to put it. Unofficially, though … well, the Hierarchy ran a number of training programs for likely Spectre applicants, and most of the turians who became Spectres had been on one of those programs. He was pretty sure the salarians had a similar approach: after all, they'd effectively invented the whole Spectre concept. And even if they didn't formally have one, their Special Tasks Group was a Spectre training program in all but name.

And as for the asari, well - like the saying went, you could only start to understand the politics of the Asari Republics once you'd reached your fifth century. Who knew how the asari prepared their Spectres candidates, if they even did? Maybe they were the one Council race who really were content to sit back and let Spectre candidates appear on their own accord. It would explain why there were so few asari Spectres.

Garrus had been thinking about this for a while, checking the extranet, speaking to his instructors at the academy. He knew it wouldn't be easy: even getting onto the program would be the biggest challenge of his life. He thought though, that he had a chance.

He'd hoped his big sister - third tier citizen now though she was- would have been more impressed.

"Pretty sure there's more to being a Spectre than a knack for shooting down plastic targets, Garrus," she said, mandibles flexing sceptically.

"I know that," he snapped back. Obviously he knew that. "But-"

"And Dad would never go along with it anyway," she said. "You know what he thinks about Spectres."

He did know. Their father was not the sort of person who saw the world in shades of grey. _Do things right, or don't do them at all._ He didn't like Spectres: didn't think that the Council should give that sort of authority to anyone, and didn't trust the motives of anyone who sought the position. He'd been saying so for as long as Garrus could remember. If he was honest with himself, maybe that was part of the appeal.

The crenellations along the city walls cast geometric patterns of light and shade along the ground. He looked at them without really seeing them, lost in thought.

 _Yes,_ he admitted to himself, _Dad is going to be a problem._

"Maybe Mother can talk him around," he suggested after a long pause.

"I'm not sure Mom's quite forgiven me for not going for the unit historian position," Solana said dubiously. "I'm not sure how happy she'd be about you applying for the Spectres either."

Their mother had served as one of her legion's historians, while she was in the military. When her mandatory service was up, she'd moved from that into a full time research position at the University, specialising in the study of the ancient history of Palaven. These days Tullia Vakarian was the head of Cipritine University's history department, though she'd also found time to pick up more than a few medals for the University in Palaven's bi-annual intercollegiate team shooting competitions. She'd bought Garrus his first rifle, when he was only six, and taken him to practice regularly for most of his childhood.

Maybe his sister didn't think he could, but he wanted to do something that would make a difference. Something that would matter. He didn't want to waste time sitting in an office filling out forms while the galaxy was growing ever more unstable around him. They were still arguing when they came back to the family villa on the outskirts of the Old City, where the silver facades of the public buildings began to give way to more traditional steel and clay tiles.

"Saren was twenty when he became a Spectre", he said, turning back to Solana as they stepped into the shade of the vestibule, "So I've still got-"

"-a lot to learn, if you think Saren Arterius is any kind of role model."

The voice was instantly familiar, though far from expected.

"Father," he said, suddenly self-conscious. "We didn't know you'd arrived."

In fact they hadn't even been sure he'd be stopping off at Palaven. Castis Vakarian had spent most of his working life on the Citadel: first as an officer of C-Sec and then ultimately as its head. His trips back home to his family on Palaven had grown rarer and rarer as he moved up the ranks; over the past few years he'd only been back about a dozen times in all, most recently when Solana had first left for boot camp.

That didn't mean that his family never saw him, exactly. But it meant that when they saw him, they were normally on the Citadel or speaking via vid-com. It always felt slightly strange to see him in person, here. He seemed to belong on the Citadel in a way that he didn't quite manage on Palaven.

"Was I interrupting something?" he asked, after his children had both greeted him.

"We were just talking about Garrus's plans for the future, Dad," said Solana easily.

"Oh?" Castis asked. "And what plans are those?"

"Well," said Garrus, suddenly nervous. "There's a lot to think about, of course. Reconnaissance, maybe, or military police? Maybe something else. I guess I'll have a better idea once I've started my formal training next year."

He wasn't sure his father was convinced. It was hard to convincingly dissemble when talking to the head of Citadel Security.

Dinner that night was a slightly strained affair. Garrus didn't talk much. He chatted with his mother about how the shooting contest with Solana had gone, and about some recent archaeological work her team was doing to investigate pre-Hierarchy monuments on Menae. He spoke politely to his father about his upcoming conference on Kahje, and about the impact on the Citadel of the increasing number of human arrivals. Otherwise kept his head down and focused his attention on his food. But he listened to Solana's stories about life in the military and promised himself that his time was coming soon.

Early the next morning, Castis Vakarian said goodbye to his family as usual and boarded a shuttle to Kahje. None of them ever saw him again.

* * *

_I guess there are worse things than paperwork after all, Dad_ , Garrus thought to himself.

He was still in the dark room. Still on Omega. He'd been dreaming again, he realised. He seemed to have spent a lot of time dreaming recently.

He'd been left here for - as far as he could work out - almost two days. Maybe three. He hadn't eaten anything since he arrived. Not since just before meeting Ish. Somehow he doubted the Blood Pack would have much in the way of Galatanan cuisine. Suspected they wouldn't have any dextro-rations at all.

 _That could be a problem_ , he admitted to himself. He was starting to feel very hungry. At least there was water to drink, though he was trying very hard not to think about where that water came from.

 _I'm going to die here_ , he thought suddenly. He'd faced the possibility of death before, but this felt different. Sooner or later, the Shadow Broker was going to tell the Blood Pack that they'd made a mistake, that they'd picked up the wrong person, probably killed the one they were meant to be after. At that point, he'd be worthless to them. Just another turian. And he knew what krogan mercenaries did to captured turians.

He didn't feel afraid, oddly. Just disappointed: in himself, in what little he'd been able to do. He found himself wishing that he'd been a better brother to Sol, that he'd achieved something more as a Spectre than getting everyone involved in his first mission killed. _Not much of a career, really,_ he thought. _Not much of a life_.

It was almost a relief when the door slammed open again, and a krogan lowered in the entrance. Garrus had been expecting his former interlocutor, but after a moment he realised this krogan was taller. Familiar. _Garm_.

"Turian," smirked Garm. It was the first time Garrus had seen him since the fight. The first time since - _no_. Garrus forced himself to make eye contact, stared back at him evenly. _You may not have been a very good Spectre -_ oddly, it was his sister's voice he heard now; a voice he hadn't heard in reality for months - _but you can at least act like a turian_.

"I've been thinking," began Garm.

That was almost too easy. Garrus opened his mouth, but didn't say anything. _What's the point?_

"Whatever the Shadow Broker's paying us for you," the krogan continued. "Maybe it's not enough. Maybe we'd be better off getting the information we need out of your head now and seeing how much it's worth to Aria, or to the Overseer, or the clans back on Tuchanka. Or maybe it's something we can make use of ourselves."

Garm stroked his chin thoughtfully, red eyes never leaving Garrus's face.

"Weapon blueprints, lost treasure … doesn't seem right that Broker gets the rewards after we do all the work."

He suddenly just wanted to get it over with. Let Garm know that he was wasting his time. _Better a quick death than rotting in this cell_.

"You've got the wrong person," he said, voice cracking and frail after so much time without speaking. "The artefact you're talking about … I never touched it. The one who did, you -"

He forced himself to stop speaking. Even if Shepard was … gone, she'd been part of his team. His responsibility. He wasn't going to give her up to the Blood Pack now.

Garm sighed theatrically, looked up at the ceiling. Belatedly, Garrus realised that there was a camera blinking silently, almost invisibly, in the corner of the room. "You see?" said Garm, addressing the camera. "Turians always underestimate us. Even now, he thinks he can fool us with these blatant lies."

"Don't bother, turian," he continued, turning back to face him "There's no mistake. The Shadow Broker mentioned you by name. You're the only one he wanted."

 _But…_ He didn't understand. He wasn't sure he had the energy to try to understand.

"My father fought in the Rebellions," the krogan continued. "I grew up on stories about fighting turians. Hurting turians. Killing turians. And sure, I've shot a few turians in my time, but I've never really had the chance to get … creative. I've always wanted to try to re-enact some of the old man's tricks; see if they really worked they way he said they did."

 _Fuck you, arsehole_ , he thought, wearily. Not the most memorable last words, he supposed. But it wasn't as if anybody was going to remember them, even if he'd spoken them out loud. He thought Garm looked a little disappointed at his lack of reaction. _Yeah, well_ , he thought, _He's hardly the only person I've disappointed, is he?_

Then the pain hit and he didn't think anything at all for a while. Afterwards, it was mercifully hard to recall what had happened. He remembered screaming at one point. Or maybe more than once.

When the pain stopped he was alone again. Alone, but somehow still alive.

He thought his right mandible might be broken, thought that the krogan might have managed to permanently damage his face plate. He couldn't move his hands to feel it, but that whole side of his head felt numb. The spurs on the back of his legs had been twisted out of position as well; trying to bend his legs hurt. Not that he was in a hurry to move.

Lying on the concrete he could hear the distant rumbling of far-off explosions. The explosions seemed to be getting closer. He thought that was vaguely interesting, but it didn't seem to matter much.

He noticed idly that he was still bleeding: bright blue blood dripping from the wound on the side of his face to form a sticky pool on the concrete floor. That didn't seem to matter either.


	13. Omega 6

This wasn't quite how Mordin had envisioned his day going. Breaking into a Blood Pack base on Omega to rescue a Council Spectre. Accompanied only by two unfamiliar biotics, a human and a turian. Badly outnumbered, woefully unprepared. A far cry from his usual routine at the clinic.

 _Should be exciting_.

He breathed in, held the air in his lungs for a second, then exhaled slowly.

He'd missed this, he realised. Work on the clinic was important - vital, in fact, for his patients in the Gozu District and beyond - and had its share of challenges, both intellectual and otherwise. But it didn't lend itself to the same rushes of adrenaline he'd grown used to during his time in STG: long hours of cutting-edge scientific discussion interrupted by news of unexpected krogan scout patrols; flashes of insight alternating with pitched battles or desperate pursuits.

As their cab pulled up outside the building Kandros had indicated they went over the plan again. Simple extraction mission, in theory. The turian Spectre that Shepard had come to Omega with - _Vakarian_ , he reminded himself - was somewhere inside, guarded by Garm and his Blood Pack. They'd infiltrate the building, find the Spectre, recover him, and get out before any of the krogan realised what was going on.

From outside, the building Kandros had brought them to seemed derelict. Hardly the sort of place Mordin would have imagined that the Blood Pack would choose to guard a valuable prisoner. _Curious_. After the initial unpleasantness with the gangs that had followed his arrival on Omega, Mordin had largely stayed clear of the Blood Pack. He hadn't had much interaction with them before Omega either, though the Blood Pack had representatives on Tuchanka as well: outriders in Clan Weyrloc, Clan Nakmor and others. But the Blood Pack on Tuchanka kept to the centres of population, registered landing zones and heavily armed Clan camps. The very places that Operation Firebreak had wanted to avoid. _Perhaps Blood Pack resources less extensive than they advertise?_

"Scans aren't picking up anybody near the entrance," Kandros whispered quietly, glancing at her omni-tool. "Let's move."

However the building had looked outside, inside it looked worse. Run-down and dilapidated, even by Omega's low standards. It was hard to believe that this was an active base for any street gang, let alone a mercenary company with the power and influence of the Blood Pack. _Just a shell_.

"You sure this is where they're holding him, Kandros?" Shepard asked, looking around the almost empty interior. Her tone was respectful, but Mordin thought she seemed sceptical.

"This is the place," the turian said confidently. "Look at the dust."

There was a lot of dust, in fact, covering the floor and the walls and the few shattered storage crates that littered the floor. Mordin didn't quite - _ah, of course_. _Obvious_. The dust didn't, in fact, completely cover the floor.

"There's a path," said Shepard, just a moment later.

A faint trail led across the floor from the entrance, cutting through the dust. The dust here had been disturbed, smoothed away by the recent passage of large, heavy footsteps. The trail did indeed form a path, leading clearly from the entrance of the building to … a brick wall.

 _A dead end? Ah, no. A false wall_. "Should search the area for access panel," Mordin suggested, "Perhaps-"

Shepard and Kandros glanced at each other and without speaking they both stepped forwards, twisting fingers and talons in mirrored gestures. On the far side of the room the false wall collapsed in on itself, bricks and mortar billowing away like smoke.

"-or could do that." Mordin finished. At least this way they wouldn't have to worry about the entrance being locked behind them.

Beyond the wall, once the dust cleared, lay the remains of an old elevator shaft, sides rusted and stained with years of disuse. There was no sign of the original elevator, but somebody - recently, Mordin thought - had lined the walls of the shaft with a spiral of steel pitons and wooden planks, forming a crude set of stairs leading down into the darkness. The steps looked precarious, but presumably the structure was robust enough to support the weight of krogan. _Should be good enough for us_.

Mordin glanced at Shepard as they began to head down. He hadn't forgotten that she'd suffered a bad fall only recently. A salarian would have recovered from such an experience quickly; remembering it, of course, but no longer troubled by it once the immediate danger had passed. But humans, he suspected, were rather more like turians in that regard. _Emotional memories, delayed shock, post-traumatic stress … need to keep under review_ , he reminded himself. He thought the human looked a little paler than usual, but she headed down the makeshift stairs without complaint.

"These are the old eezo mining tunnels," said Kandros. "Aria told me about them once. They're old, even for Omega. Hasn't been anything worth mining on this rock since before the Hierarchy was founded."

"Fascinating!" Mordin breathed, staring at the tunnels around them. Omega, he knew, had once been a rich source of element zero. A long, long time ago. If anything, Kandros was understating the antiquity of the site; Omega was said to be tens of thousands of years old; far older than not just the Hierarchy but any turian civilisation. _Or salarian, for that matter._

"Aria won't be happy the Blood Pack are here," Kandros said. "This was meant to be her secret."

Mordin shook his head slightly. _Hubris_ , he thought. For all the asari's power and ruthlessness, Aria was only the latest in a long line of self-proclaimed rulers of Omega, a line that stretched back thousands of years. None of its rulers could hope to know all of Omega's secrets, and equally surely none could expect a monopoly on the few secrets of the world that they were unable to unearth.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, careful to make as little sound as possible. There was little sign that the tunnels were occupied; except for a few crude torches burning at the points where different tunnels joined together, and some fresh tracks in the dirt and dust that lined the tunnel floor. In fact, Mordin was becoming worried. No guards on the top level made sense - the whole point, surely, was to make the entrance seem deserted - but he'd expected at least a token patrol here. _Something happened here. Or still happening, maybe._

Kandros led them through the tunnels at an even pace, always heading down when they could. Eventually that path led them to some sort of hub: a row of consoles and terminals in a central pit, where the three of them stood for a moment, surrounded on all sides by the balconies and walkways that lined the stone walls. _Good place for ambush_.

Kandros checked her omni-tool again. Mordin suspected she'd had a similar idea. While the omni-tool's scanning functions would be limited down here below the surface, it should at least suffice to pick up anything in the immediate vicinity.

"Well," the turian announced, after an almost imperceptible pause, "There's obviously nobody here." She tapped her left hand against the side of her leg twice, talons splayed open, a gesture which Mordin didn't recognise but which made Shepard's eyes widen. The human nodded to Kandros and - without speaking - turned slowly towards the balcony behind her.

Mordin's pistol was in his hands even before he was conscious of the decision to draw it. _Just like old times_.

"So, Professor," said Kandros pleasantly, "I guess we're all ready to leave now?"

"Ah, yes," said Mordin. "Of course. Just need to-"

There was a sudden squeal from one of the upper platforms. On the periphery of his vision, Mordin could just make out Shepard, half-hidden behind an array of computer terminals, fingers splayed apart and pointing upwards. Blue energies arced over the metal platforms above them, tumbling over crates and storage units. Behind the detritus, a single vorcha huddled, crouching low to the ground, eyes wide open and teeth bared wide.

For a moment, the vorcha seemed paralysed - eyes darting back and forth from the human below him to a ventilation access point on the wall behind him. Then with a wordless cry he acted: throwing himself forward, up and over the railings at the side of the balcony. Teeth bared, claws outstretched, eyes only on the human below.

Shepard reacted almost immediately, rolling out of the way even while she pulled up a barrier around herself. Mordin reacted a fraction faster. His pistol fired just as the vorcha cleared the edge of the upper platform. _Just like old times_. The vorcha crashed to the ground where Shepard had been with a wet thump, lifeless eyes still frozen open.

Kandros shook her head, looking around the room thoughtfully. She checked her omni-tool again, apparently more satisfied with the results of the scans now.

"This looks like some sort of operational centre," she said briskly. "The Blood Pack must have had a presence here. Maybe we can hack into their security systems. Find out what's going on. Professor?"

"Doctorate in biology, not tech!" he objected. It was worth a try though. He hurried to find a working console.

"You know Cabal hand and arm signals?" Shepard asked Kandros, curiously.

"I'm a turian and I'm a biotic," said Kandros flatly. "So yes, I know Cabal signals." She didn't seem inclined to elaborate.

Mordin reflected on the rumours he'd heard about the turian. Turian mercenaries and freeloaders were a common sight in the Traverse, for all the Hierarchy's propaganda about strength and unity. Biotics though … turian biotics were uncommon enough in Council space, and were a truly rare sight in this part of the galaxy, despite their less than favoured position in turian society. He wondered what had driven Kandros out to Omega. _Not important_ , he reminded himself. _Focus on mission_.

The body of the vorcha he'd shot lay just a few feet from the only console that still seemed to be working. He wondered what had made it charge them head-on when it might have fled. Orders, instinct, some combination of the two? If it had just broken for the ventilation passages, it might have lived. _Stupid. Senseless waste of life_.

Alive, vorcha were fearsome: snarling jagged teeth, claws, screams. In death, it was easier to remember how young all vorcha were, how short their lives were even by his people's standard. _Rest, young vorcha. Find whatever waits beyond this life. Find someplace better._

"Fascinating species," he said quietly, barely aware of his fingers tapping out commands and queries on the console. "Biologically unique. Highly adaptive, capable of thriving in almost all conditions, immune to almost all disease. Difficult to imagine such abilities developing naturally. But short-lived, territorial, quick to anger and prone to destructive violent outbursts. Makes vorcha ideal shock troops, cannon fodder for mercenary bands. No real possibility of stable, independent vorcha government. Implications unpleasant."

"You think the vorcha were - what, genetically engineered?" asked Kandros, coming to join him by the terminal. "Who by?"

He thought she sound dubious. Though many species had legends attributing the founding of their civilisations to an external presence - the hanar's worship of the Enkindlers, the asari's Athame Doctrine, the batarian heretic movement's reverence of the Architects - few people outside these species took the claims seriously as scientific explanations. Certainly intelligent space-faring life had flourished in the galaxy long before the asari and the salarians: the Citadel and the mass relays alone were proof of that. But there was no firm evidence to suggest that either the Protheans or anybody else had taken any active role in uplifting any of the galaxy's current space-faring races.

"Only a possibility." he said absently, attention focused mainly on the console in front of him. "Would have happened thousands of years ago, perhaps tens of thousands, if at all. Impossible to speculate as to details or history. Hope suspicion incorrect; difficult to imagine ethical justification."

"Interesting to hear a salarian stress the importance of ethical considerations when tampering with another species' genetics." There was an edge to Kandros twin-toned voice that Mordin hadn't noticed before. "Or do different rules apply to krogan?"

"Same rules!" he said, eyes flicking up to the turian's for a second before moving back to the console screen. "Different circumstances, different conclusions, perhaps, but principles same. Genophage introduces checks on krogan growth; unchecked growth leads to conflict, war, extinction. Genophage prevents that!"

"I guess all the sterile krogan on Tuchanka can count their blessings that they're not subject to war and conflict, then." If anything, the edge was more noticeable now.

"State of present day Tuchanka result of krogan reaction to genophage, not genophage itself." Mordin countered. _And genophage not sterility plague._ "Problems on planet predate salarian presence. Caused by inter-clan conflict, caused by traditional krogan militarism, caused by scarcity of depleted resources. Not by genophage." _Not by me_.

"But deliberately engineering intelligent life form as a tool, a weapon-" Mordin forced himself to slow down, to breathe evenly, probing the limits of the console's security systems as he spoke. "-unconscionable. Inexcusable."

"Like uplifting the krogan to fight the rachni?" asked Kandros.

"Initial salarian contact with krogan regrettable, in hindsight," Mordin acknowledged. "Council was desperate, fearful. War against rachni progressed poorly. Stability of whole galaxy in doubt. Decision understandable. But short-sighted. Unwise. Like giving nuclear weapons to cave dwellers. End results tragic: galaxy still unstable, rachni extinct. Whole point of genophage was to avoid repeating this mistake."

"If I remember my history lessons, it was the Hierarchy who decided to use the genophage." Shepard's voice took them both by surprise. The human, who'd wordlessly positioned herself as a look-out at the entrance to the security hub, hadn't spoken since they'd started arguing. Mordin glanced up, saw her looking back at Kandros oddly.

"Which they'd never have had the chance to do if it wasn't for the salarians-" began Kandros.

Shepard shook her head, turned to look back into the tunnels outside.

"I'm with the doctor on this," she said, voice soft but deliberate. "The last thing the galaxy needs is more krogan."

 _Not the point_ , Mordin thought, wearily. _All life precious. But Universe demands-_ He shook his head. It was an old argument, old before any of them were born. _Wrong to take personally_.

In any case, this wasn't the time to be arguing medical ethics.

"System security disabled." he said, quietly, staring at a row of green lights on the console screen. "Access granted."

"And only a few minutes ago you were trying to persuade as you weren't a tech expert," Kandros said, voice light. Whatever had prompted her earlier irritation with him seemed to be forgotten. Perhaps he'd imagined it. _But perhaps not_. Despite her current employment, he knew Kandros could be oddly idealistic at times, almost naive. _Strange traits for a turian mercenary to possess_.

"No need to be an expert to break into these systems," he replied, shaking his head sadly. "Designer was sloppy. Took shortcuts, made mistakes."

And now those mistakes were going to get people killed.

* * *

Having broken into the security system, Mordin could see and hear everything that the base's cameras were capable of picking up. Something was interfering with the system though, so he could see and hear much less than he'd have hoped. Visual displays were almost non-existent, audio kept cutting in and out. He kept an eye on the feed as they moved down into the base's lower levels, kept up a running commentary of the more interesting developments.

⟨⟨ … _anyone hear me? If you're alive, get your arses back here - they're readying another assault._ _⟩⟩_

"Base under attack," he explained. "Assailants unknown. Not us. Upper levels abandoned. Blood Pack entrenched on lower levels. No mention of Spectre."

⟨⟨ _Any coward who … have to answer Garm when this is over. You … exactly. ⟩⟩_

"Vakarian will be on the low levels," Shepard said. "They'll want to keep him safe for the Shadow Broker."

"Forces attacking base might actually belong to Shadow Broker," Mordin suggested. "Perhaps Blood Pack have held onto prize for too long."

"If the Broker had forces of his own, why hire the Blood Pack to begin with?" objected Shepard. _Good question_. _Perhaps third party?_

"The Shadow Broker's never used the Blood Pack before," said Kandros. "Never acted this openly on Omega. Whatever makes your friend special, the Broker must think he's pretty valuable. Any ideas why?"

Shepard didn't say anything. _Understandable. Military secrets._ But the emotions playing out on her face suggested she was as confused as they were.

It was a mystery. Why could make a single young turian - even a Spectre - so interesting to the Broker? Could it be related to the Prothean artefacts Shepard had begun talking about earlier? _Too many unknowns,_ he concluded. _Too many variables._ This wasn't something he'd be able to figure out yet. _Always interesting to speculate though_.

The tunnel they'd been following opened out onto a large, cavernous space. A deep fissure, cutting through the rock. And over the chasm, several long narrow walkways, each leading out over the darkness to another tunnel entrance on the far side. _Long way down_ , he thought, gazing over the edge.

Mordin considered suggesting Shepard stay behind. Not for long though - he could tell he'd only be wasting his time. _Still, good to keep eye on her_. _Watch for erratic behaviour_.

They'd made it almost halfway across - Shepard grim-faced but uncomplaining - when the audio feed of the hacked security system crackled back to life.

⟨⟨ _Trouble down by the pit … more of … going to check it out. ⟩⟩_

Kandros glanced down at her omni-tool, expression grim. "Picking up movement at the other side," she warned. "Something big. Krogan. Four, maybe five."

"Keep low," Mordin whispered to the other two. With luck, the arriving krogan wouldn't notice them from the far side of the chasm if they pressed down against the guard rails and didn't move. None of what he'd been able to hack into had suggested the Blood Pack were aware of their presence. These new arrivals were likely focused on whatever force was attacking their base.

Even if they came out to investigate, there were several walkways and they might not check them all. _Optimistic_ , he chided himself. He knew they'd have to be ready to fight. The air shimmered slightly as Kandros faded from view. _Tactical cloak_ , he realised. _Useful_. That meant only Shepard and himself would have to hope to stay hidden.

The noise at the far side of the fissure intensified. Four armoured krogan emerged from the tunnel, suits scarred with soot and fire damage. The krogans' attention wasn't on them, but focused instead on something behind them. _Somebody in pursuit?_

After a hurried conference amongst themselves - one that, frustratingly, Mordin wasn't able to listen in on, even with access to the security system - the krogan filed onto one of the walkways. _Not ours_ , he realised with relief. The four Blood Pack fighters headed across the chasm on a walkway a few metres to their right, wide eyes now focused ahead of them.

Shepard and Mordin waited in silence, frozen in place behind their walkway's guardrail, until the sound of the krogan's passage had faded into the air. Then they began making their way slowly forward again. They'd almost made it to the other side when they heard more noises coming from the passageway that they were moving towards.

 _Ah, nobody in pursuit_ , Mordin realised, just a little too late. _Waiting for straggler to catch up_.

It was just bad luck that the fifth krogan ran on to the exact walkway that they were waiting on. This time there was nowhere to hide.

"More of you?" the krogan snarled. Despite the bluster, he seemed nervous. _Afraid? Not typical krogan reaction._

"No, wait," he continued, shaking his head slightly. "Not asari. Doesn't matter. Dead either way."

The krogan pulled a shotgun from behind his back and began to rush towards them firing wildly as he advanced. _Weapon ineffective at that range_ , thought Mordin, critically. _Poor tactical choice_. The krogan's footsteps echoed loudly on the metal walkway, and the whole edifice seemed to shake under his weight.

The air shimmered again - not next to them, this time, but behind the krogan. Kandros hadn't waited as long as they had, and she was already on the far side. She gestured, and the krogan's shotgun jerked backwards, sparks flying from the chamber and loading ports. The krogan cursed, shook the now useless weapon angrily, then threw it over the edge of the walkway in disgust.

He looked behind him at the lone turian, and then in front of him, where Shepard and Mordin waited. His nostrils flared,

 _Blood rage_ , recognised Mordin. _Going to charge-_

The krogan bellowed, lowered his head, and - froze in place, held motionless against his will by shimmering bands of blue energy. Next to him, Mordin saw Shepard's hands splayed out in front of her, face pale, arms slightly trembling. The energy needed to keep a charging krogan in place was considerable, Mordin knew.

The human was visibly perspiring with the effort, he saw; a jarring reminder of just how alien his patient was. _Strange species_ , he thought. _Interesting, but strange_.

"You think you can get past him, doc?" Shepard asked. Mordin paused, considering his chances. If Shepard could keep the stasis field up, perhaps- but she couldn't. Even as he calculated, the krogan's eye grew wider until, with a roar, he broke free, taking one step forward, then another. Then another. He was building up to charging speed when - biting back what sounded like a curse - Shepard made an abrupt chopping motion with her left hand and a biotic field threw the krogan across the width of the walkway.

The krogan slammed head-first into the guardrail, which buckled under the continued biotic pressure, filling the air with the creaking sound of twisting metal. Then the metal sheared away, and the the krogan fell into the black space below. If he screamed, Mordin didn't hear it. He didn't hear a body land, either.

He looked over at Shepard, face still pale, heart rate obviously elevated. Mordin was no biotic expert, but he didn't think she had much more to give.

"Him or us," he said quietly.

"Yeah," she said, peering down over the edge cautiously. "Hell of a way to go though."

* * *

They'd moved two levels further down when Mordin's hacked security feed finally honed in on the target of their search. The Blood Pack's fight against their mystery attackers seemed to be going poorly: the air was full of the sound of wailing alarms, and the ground rumbled with the echoes of distant explosions.

⟨⟨ _I don't know where you managed to recruit a band of asari commandos, ⟩⟩_ the krogan voice snarled. _⟨⟨ Frankly, I don't care. When they show up, you'll call them off, or I'll break your neck myself. ⟩⟩_

"Found Garm," he whispered. "Suspect he's with our target. Reluctant to ask, but were either of you expecting asari commandos?" The krogan they'd fought on the bridge earlier had mentioned asari as well, he remembered.

Kandros and Shepard both shook their heads. _Another puzzle, then_. _Aria, maybe?_ _Although … no, surely not. Council reinforcements?_

Soon they reached the source of the audio transmission he'd picked up earlier - a long narrow corridor with a row of identical steel doors, all but one hanging open, the cells behind them empty. The only closed door was at the end of the corridor. Mordin nodded. "Signal came from here," he said.

One of the biotics - Mordin wasn't sure which - blasted open the metal door with a wave of her hand. The small room inside was dark, the air humid and foul even by the standards of Omega.

A turian lay immobile - _or dead?_ \- on the floor of the cell, cuffed to a metal chair that lay on its side next to him. Towering above the prone turian stood a krogan, eight feet tall, armour glowing almost purple with barely suppressed biotic energy, red eyes glittering as they reflected the light shining from the open doorway. _Garm_ , Mordin recognised. He'd only spoken to the krogan once before, but the Battlemaster had made something of an impression. Garm held a huge shotgun in one hand, almost casually, its muzzle resting squarely on the turian's head.

"Not another step," Garm growled. "Unless you want me to end this turian." He blinked, tightening his grip on the shotgun as his eyes refocused on Shepard.

"You!" he said. "But you're-"

The human ignored him, her attention focused elsewhere entirely.

"Garrus!" she shouted, flinging up an arm, fingers outstretched. The big krogan went flying backwards, crashing hump first into the concrete wall behind him. Shepard looked almost as shocked as the krogan, who pulled himself to his feet almost instantly, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You've got a quad, human," he growled. "More so than the turian, that's for sure. I don't know how you survived our last fight, but this time I-"

The rumbling echo of another explosion made the whole floor shake. This one sounded closer than the others. _Much closer_. That explosion was followed by another one a few seconds later, then another. Another. Then the whole wall behind Garm dissolved into a fine mist of grey dust and smoke.

As the dust began to settle, Mordin saw that four figures now stood where the wall had once been.

 _Ah_ , he thought. _Group attacking the base reveal themselves. Must have routed last of the Blood Pack defenders._

Sure enough, the new arrivals were asari. _Commandos, if not mistaken._

"Krogan." the foremost asari said coldly. "Surrender or die. This will be your only warning."

It could only have been meant as an insult. Krogan - outnumbered, injured, surrounded, or all three - simply didn't surrender. And however else he differed from his species, Garm was no exception to that rule.

"You think I've never faced an asari commando unit before?" he snarled. "I'll tear you apart. I'll grind your bones into dust. I'll-"

The asari moved faster than Mordin thought possible. _Speed biotically enhanced?_ One moment she was standing several feet away from the raving Battlemaster, the next she was standing right next to him. Instinctively Garm pulled his head back, readying himself to headbutt … but the asari moved aster, punching up and through the side of the krogan's jaw with a fist wreathed in blue fire.

Mordin had learnt a few things about killing krogan in his life, both before and after his time on Tuchanka. Had killed krogan with bullets, fire, high explosives … even with farming equipment, on one memorable occasion. And of course he'd heard the persistent rumour that there was a soft spot, somewhere on a krogan's head, which could fatally incapacitate a krogan if properly excised. Anatomically correct, in fact - the weak spot was the last remnant of some long-abandoned vestigial organ in the krogan's evolutionary history - but he'd always assumed that it wasn't actually possible to take advantage of this fact in combat. Had dismissed accounts of those who claimed to have done so as nothing more than self-aggrandising bravado.

_Apparently is possible. Interesting._

The asari's momentum carried her up past Garm, even as he fell face down onto the concrete floor of the cell. She twisted in the air - seemingly effortlessly - to avoid his flailing arms and claws, flipped herself up and over the collapsing Battlemaster, and landed smoothly on her feet. She looked down at Garm, her face still expressionless.

"Embrace eternity." she suggested, almost gently.

The light in the krogan's eyes grew dim. He opened his mouth as if to reply, trying to struggle back upright, but only slumped wordlessly to his knees. _Secondary nervous system failing_ , Mordin diagnosed. The asari turned her back and slowly walked away.

While Kandros rushed forward to make sure the Battlemaster was truly dead - always a sensible precaution with krogan - Mordin turned his attention to the other turian. The Spectre. _Injured, bleeding, but alive_. _Emergency treatment with medi-gel, bandage wounds, then …_ Vakarian was conscious, but disengaged, barely aware of his surroundings.

As he worked, he heard footsteps behind him. The sound they made was irregular. Suggested hesitancy, trepidation The turian looked over Mordin's shoulder, eyes widening in surprise.

"Shepard," he breathed. "I thought you were d-" His mouth shut.

"Shepard very much alive," replied Mordin. "Thanks in part to excellent medical care. Same will be true for you. Can thank me later."

They both ignored him. The Spectre's eyes stayed focused on the human standing behind Mordin's shoulder. Mordin may not have been an expert in interpreting turian body language, but he didn't think he needed to be in this case. He moved aside to let them see each other better.

"Blood Pack wouldn't let me borrow a mirror," the turian said, two parallel lines of bright blue blood dripping from the ruined mandibles around his mouth as he spoke. "How bad is it?"

The human stared at him without speaking. But her physiological response - a barely audible gasp of breath, widened eyes, dilated pupils, skin visibly paling in response to sudden alpha-adrenoreceptor stimulus - was answer enough. Mordin thought he saw the turian flinch. He finished bandaging Vakarian's wounds quickly, then edged away before he overheard anything he shouldn't.

The truth was, the turian's injuries weren't anything life-threatening. Nothing Mordin wouldn't be able to treat back at his clinic. Vakarian would most likely be up and walking within hours. He'd be scarred, of course; mandibles damaged for life, facial injuries likely to require cybernetic treatment. To a turian, Mordin was dimly aware, that was quite important.

Then again, Mordin thought - absentmindedly rubbing the stump where his cranial horn used to be - there were worse things in the galaxy than scars.

* * *

He found Kandros talking in hushed whispers with the lead asari commando.

"Salarian," the asari said, sounding slightly puzzled. "What business do you have here?"

"Was curious," said Mordin, simply. _No advantage in lying about it_. "Unusual patient, found by assistant in strange circumstances. Wanted to know how she came to be here; wanted to know what would happen next."

The asari shook her head dismissively. "You are not my concern," she said. She turned aside, dismissing him, and Kandros nodded to him in greeting.

"So," she said. "Garm's dead, the Blood Pack base in in ruins … this really wasn't the plan, was it? So much for subtlety."

"What now?" he asked her.

"Well," said Kandros thoughtfully. ""I guess l go back and tell Aria that I defied her orders and helped rescue the Spectre. Unless we can blame it all on these asari." She didn't seem very hopeful about that.

"Aria unlikely to be pleased," he said.

"Oh, I'm sure she'll forgive me," she said lightly. "You, on the other hand …"

Kandros shook her head. "You might want to consider staying away from Afterlife for a few weeks. And staying off Omega altogether would be even safer. The Blood Pack's been hurt today, but they'll be back. And they'll be looking for revenge. Hard to be sure there aren't any witness to our presence here, given all the cameras."

He nodded, slowly. _Acted impulsively,_ he thought. _Should have considered ramifications for own future, for clinic_.

"Might go with Shepard and the Spectre," he said. "Both still need medical attention, after all. Understand that they'll be meeting with the Council. Can spend some time on the Citadel myself."

"Look after Shepard," she said, the tones of her voice betraying an emotion that seemed familiar. "She - well, let's just say I owe her."

"Hope you'll keep an eye on clinic?" he asked.

She nodded and Mordin relaxed slightly. Whatever their disagreements, he knew Kandros would make sure that Jella and the rest of his staff were safe from any reprisals.

On the other side of the room, the asari had begun to interrogate Vakarian, who stood awkwardly next to Shepard. _Surprised to see him standing up already_ , Mordin thought. Looking closer he realised the Spectre wasn't simply standing close to Shepard, he was leaning on her shoulder, using her as support. The human, for her part, kept her eyes mostly on Vakarian. For all the confidence she'd projected earlier, Mordin suspected she'd not really expected to find him still alive.

Mordin nodded farewell to Kandros, and walked back towards his patients.

"You are the Spectre," he heard the asari say. It didn't sound like a question. "We have been searching for you for some time."

Vakarian nodded carefully, clearly trying not to disturb his freshly bandaged injuries. His slight grimace suggested he'd only been partly successful.

"My name is Shiala," the commando said. "I serve Matriarch Benezia. The unit I lead are searching for the Matriarch's daughter, an expert in Prothean artefacts."

"Oh?" the Spectre's voice seemed thinner than it should. Mordin noticed the human seemed to tense as well. He wondered if they'd had some sort of encounter with the Matriarch before.

"Her name is Liara," the asari continued, "Liara T'Soni." But why did that make the human relax?

"She is presently in the employ of a volus, Kumun Shol," Shiala continued. " I believe this individual is known to you both."

Shepard's face was impassive, but Mordin noticed her eyes, that had stayed focused warily on the asari after the mention of a daughter, briefly flickered back towards the turian next to her. Vakarian nodded slowly after a slight pause.

"Where can he be found?" Shiala asked. Asari were famously self-composed, but Mordin thought she sounded eager, almost desperate. He wondered how long her search had taken, how far she'd travelled.

"The last I knew Shol was on Klencory," Vakarian said. "We spoke to him a few days ago. Maybe your bosses' daughter is there as-"

"She is not there," the asari said, frowning. "Nor is Mr. Shol. Klencory was the first place we thought to look, the first place we visited. There was evidence of a small habitation, a camp, but it was long abandoned. Scans detected no sign of life anywhere else on the planet. Nobody has been living on Klencory for months."


	14. Husks

| A Few Days Earlier | Dobrovolski |

Who was the Illusive Man?

That was the question Tela Vasir had dedicated the last few months of her life to trying to answer.

In one sense, everybody knew who the Illusive Man was. The leader and founder of Cerberus, the separatist group which had spent the last few years plaguing the turians and their human protectorate. The group whose efforts to forcibly sever humanity's ties to the Hierarchy had finally done enough to bring itself to the attention of the Council, who had recognised them as a threat to the galactic stability that Vasir had devoted her life to defending.

And she could guess where he had come from: a disaffected junior officer in the old human military, most likely, or perhaps a mercenary or other form of adventurer. Somebody with military training and unrealised personal ambitions, dissatisfied by the political settlement after the galaxy discovered the human colony worlds and the Systems Alliance became a Protectorate of the turians. Every peace had its malcontents, and every insurgent movement was based on individuals like this. So taught the histories of the Republics, at least, and in this respect the accounts of old Thessia were mirrored and reflected in the classified records of the Salarian Union, in the military chronicles of the Hierarchy and in the tales and legends of countless minor species.

But who was he? Who were his parents, his family, his children? Where did he sleep, where did he hide from the prying eyes of the turian Blackwatch and the Alliance's own security forces? How could he be hurt?

Vasir was sure that the answer to those questions were the key to defeating Cerberus. The organisation was unusually disciplined, but by all accounts much more centralised than it was wise to be. Whether from their founder's excess pride or from a lack of proper resources, they depended too much on him. The Illusive Man was the linchpin that held the group together. Identify him, track him down, and the rest of the edifice he built up would crumble into dust.

After some digging, she'd come up with an initial list of five names. Five candidates, representing her best hopes of unmasking the Illusive Man.

Jon Grissom had been missing since before the first human colonies had been attacked by the batarians or taken over by the turians. After breaking into his daughter's house and doing some further digging in her private computer network, she was fairly sure Grissom had been on Earth when the relay went down. So that was one suspect eliminated.

Alec Ryder and Steven Hackett had both been missing since the launch of the ill-fated Terra Firma project. If they were alive - she didn't think it likely - they were hardly in any position to communicate with the rest of the galaxy. Zaeed Massani had been a reluctant guest of Warden Kuril on the prison ship Purgatory for over five years. Considering what he was being held on Purgatory for, she thought Massani could count himself lucky not to have been shipped to Khar'Shan to face a firing squad. Or worse.

That left one name, albeit a significant one: Oleg Petrovsky. The current President of the Systems Alliance. Unlike the others, he wasn't hard to track down - she'd actually met him herself, finding some pretext to talk to him at some otherwise unmemorable diplomatic function almost half a year ago. But proving any connections to Cerberus had been frustratingly hard.

As a younger man, the young Lieutenant Petrovsky had opposed humanity becoming a protectorate of the Hierarchy, true, but he'd also been a staunch defender of President Williams and a vociferous opponent of Cerberus even before the groups' move into outright terrorism on human soil. Besides, the man's communications were monitored every minute of the day. If by some miracle he was the Illusive Man, then the Illusive Man was much less involved in the day to day running of Cerberus than she'd assumed. A much less pivotal figure than he was believed to be.

No, the Illusive Man had to be somebody else, somebody she'd not initially considered. None of her candidates made any sense.

But that meant she was left with nothing. No leads on the Illusive Man, and no leads on Cerberus. Until she'd picked up a tip about their activity on Eden Prime, anyway. Raiding the Cerberus base on the human colony world had given her her first real, tangible leads.

Now, she had something to work with. A whole new way in. And the key to unlock the mystery was here, on Dobrovolski.

_But Goddess knows that there's fuck all else here._

Dobrovolski was one of the smaller and least populated human colony worlds, and that was saying something. She'd been here less than a day and the planet had already worn out its welcome. It was cold, it was remote and it was ugly.

Founded as a mining settlement before the human home world had been lost to the galaxy, Dobrovolski's only claim to galactic fame was that it had been the site of one of the very first Cerberus attacks. Four years ago, the first President of the Systems Alliance, General Williams, had been touring the Alliance worlds with his extended family. A publicity stunt, she gathered, to promote the recent decision to allow non-biotic humans to enlist as auxiliaries in the Hierarchy's forces. Something that the President's eldest granddaughter - Ashley - had even done herself.

While the President toured Dobrovolski, Cerberus agents - who had never been caught - had planted an explosive device in a shuttle that the President had been due to use to leave the settlement. But he'd never set foot on it. Instead, young Ashley Williams had, apparently on a dare, sneaked out of the farewell party to take the shuttle for a joyride. The resulting explosion had killed the girl almost instantly, and her death - along with the attempted batarian invasion of the Alliance worlds soon afterwards - had been one of the reasons the old General had stood down last year rather than seeking re-election.

At least, that was the official story. But only an idiot believed the official story without corroborating evidence.

That was why she was here, on Dobrovolski, almost shivering in the cold despite the thick clothes she was disguised in. Dobrovolski, like any other backwater, wasn't used to seeing alien visitors. She didn't want her visit to draw any undue attention, so she was keen to make sure none of the humans noticed the asari among them.

This was easier than she had any right to expect. All she had to do was wear the same drab robes as they did and shuffle gracelessly along and the humans never thought to look for anything else. She supposed she should be grateful for the planet's dreadful weather, but instead she traipsed unhappily through poorly heated rooms and thought wistfully of the warm climate of Thessia.

The facility she was in now was the medical centre - just a morgue, really - closest to the site where the attack had taken place. There didn't seem to be anybody else around. _No patients, no staff._ But there was a bell on the information desk, and a sign asking visitors to press it to summon assistance.

She pressed the bell cautiously, going over in her mind once more the cover story that she'd worked on to explain her presence. The story that, it turned out, she'd never need.

"Greetings, citizen!" The voice was instantly grating: full of false enthusiasm and poorly-synthesized charm. "How may I help you today?"

 _Oh, great_ , Vasir thought, looking askance at the flickering holographic VI that the bell had summoned. _A pop-up_.

She thought she recognised the model: an old-fashioned design that been briefly popular on the Citadel twenty or thirty years ago. Perhaps a cheap off-the-shelf model like this was all that Dobrovolski could afford. Maybe they didn't even realise what they'd been palmed off with. Like most asari, Vasir prefered her VI's quietly tasteful and tastefully quiet. Still, at least the VI could be relied upon to be incurious.

"Is this where Ashley Williams was brought after her shuttle exploded?" she asked bluntly.

"That is correct." The VI's bright smile seemed to be a fixture, entirely at odds with her solemn words. "Four years ago, Ms Williams was brought here following an unprovoked attack by the terrorist group commonly referred to as Cerberus. Sadly, Ms Williams' wounds-"

"I know that," snapped Vasir, cutting off the VI's canned speech. Unlike an organic, a VI would not be bothered by being interrupted. _Or at least_ , she thought, _If they're bothered they don't show any outward sign of it_. It was all the same to her.

"What happened to her body?"

"I'm sorry," the VI said brightly, "But that information is restricted to members of the Williams family. Please-"

"Spectre override," Vasir snapped, "Authorisation code Keph Bastzuda Nephros."

The VI projection seemed to flicker, briefly, as the code was verified.

"Authorisation code confirmed." Whoever had programmed the VI had apparently decided the same saccharine tone would be appropriate for responding to emergency Spectre overrides. "Greetings, Spectre Vasir. How may I -"

"What happened to Ashley Williams' body?" she asked again, not waiting for the machine to finish. "Is it stored here?"

"No, Spectre Vasir." the VI replied.. "The body was stored in this facility for a short time during the initial investigation, but was subsequently cremated and the ashes returned to Ms. Williams' family on Horizon."

"Cremation?" she asked, puzzled. "Is that normal for humans?" It was a fairly common way of disposing of the bodies of the asari - though hanging on to the ashes struck her as perverse, somehow. Once consciousness had departed, and the individual spirit returned to the universal consciousness, why hoard the lifeless molecules of the shell that remained? But she'd thought that humans buried their dead.

"Human beings practice a wide range of funeral customs." The VI's artificial smile seemed to grow even brighter. "To learn more human cultural traditions, please visit the System Alliance's pages on the extranet. Keyword: culture."

Vasir supposed she'd do just that. It was just a little thing, but what she'd been able to salvage from the Cerberus systems on Eden Prime had been oddly suggestive. There was more to the death of Ashley Williams than most people believed. Something that Cerberus didn't want the galaxy to know.

"Who approved removing the body from this facility?" she asked. At least she'd end up with another name to track down, assuming that it hadn't been President Williams himself.

"That information is not available." The VI's voice was flat and toneless, entirely at odds with the rest of its programming.

 _Now that's interesting.._.

With her authorisation codes, the VI simply wasn't able to hide any information from her. If it said that information wasn't available, then that information really wasn't available, not to anyone. But surely that would have been logged somewhere?

"Who did the initial autopsy?" she asked, trying to approach the problem from a different angle.

"That information is not available."

"Did anybody try to delete data from this facility's systems relating to Ashley Williams, either before or after her death?"

"That information is not available."

She was almost starting to miss the VI's earlier simulated enthusiasm. _Almost_. This wasn't going to work. She'd have to track the physical ashes back to the Williams' estate. _At least it's warm on Horizon_.

"Can I help you with anything else, Spectre Vasir?" the VI asked brightly.

Vasir nodded, as much to herself as to the VI. _I'm done here_.

"Purge all records of this conversation, including these instructions, and forget that we ever spoke." she ordered briskly.

The VI interface blinked once, suddenly looking faintly puzzled, then made eye contact with Vasir again and smiled brightly.

"Greetings, citizen! How may I help you today?"

* * *

The VI had been right. The extranet had more information on how humans treated the remains of their dead that anybody could possibly need. Burial, cremation, mummification, ... . sometimes humans were every bit as primitive as they appeared. A body was just a body. She'd seen enough of them to know. Even the batarians had worked that much out, and they were barely a step above barbarism.

She had plenty of time to read as the shuttle she'd stowed away in made its long, winding way to Horizon. She could have just requisitioned the human's shuttle, but that would be something he remembered. Better that as few people as possible knew that she'd ever been on Dobrovolski. Besides, the man appeared to be smuggling unprocessed eezo out of the colony and she was interested to see who his buyer was.

Her preliminary research had already convinced her that sneaking into the former President's estate would be an altogether different prospect to investigating a half-abandoned medical facility. She was going to need some help on this one.

Even in the solitude of her hideaway in the shuttle's cargo hold, Vasir checked her surroundings carefully before pulling out the next item. Some habits were unwise to break.

She looked at the device carefully. Only a few people in the galaxy would have recognised it as a miniaturised quantum entanglement communicator - definitely not Council-issue. Only enough bandwidth to transmit plain text, but that text would be read instantly by the person with access to the unique communicator this device was paired with.

It almost felt like cheating, really. But she'd not been in touch for a few months.

⟨⟨ _Hey, Boss ⟩⟩_ she typed. _⟨⟨ Need a favour. ⟩⟩_

* * *

Looking back she wasn't sure exactly how it started. A few decades ago she'd been a young, freshly-approved Spectre, eager to do her part to help the Council fight for order and stability in a dark galaxy. She'd known almost from the beginning that she needed an edge, something to elevate her above the others. Her biotics alone weren't going to be enough: Spectres were more than soldiers, more than weapons. They were the Council's first and best line of defence against chaos.

She found what she was looking for in the information markets of Illium. Illium was the latest venture of the asari corporations: a world run by asari yet outside the official control of the Republics or the Council. A world where the laws of Citadel space did not always apply, and where goods and services could be traded freely. And on Illium, information was a commodity to be traded just like any other.

That was what she needed, she'd realised: information. It wasn't enough to simply react. Any asari huntress or commando unit could take down an enemy after the Council had pointed them in the right direction. A Spectre - a good Spectre - would know where to strike before the Council knew to give the orders. To prevent atrocities the Council never saw coming.

As she'd worked, she'd quickly realised that one of her regular Illium contacts surpassed all the others. Whatever the topic of inquiry, she found that they knew more than the others, that they knew it sooner, that they were wrong less often. Over time she found herself relying on them more and more, almost to the exclusion of anybody else.

She used their intel to disrupt red sand smuggling rings, to capture quarian serial killers, to crush nascent plots against the Council almost before the conspirators knew what they were proposing. With each success, her reputation among those that mattered grew. She was somebody who got results. And the galaxy got a little bit brighter.

Things had grown naturally from there, she supposed.

A few years later her contact had traded intel on a band of batarian pirates in exchange for her agreement to terminate marriage negotiations between two prestigious salarian clans. She'd smuggled a virus into one of the families' primary computer systems that had corrupted their ancestry records beyond repair. No more records, no more negotiations. She couldn't remember exactly when that had happened. She didn't remember either of the families' names, either.

It was about then that she'd realised just who it was she was dealing with. Not just any information broker, but the definitive article himself. The Shadow Broker. She'd challenged him about it, after putting the clues together, and he'd asked her if that was a problem. It wasn't, she'd realised. After the initial surprise had faded, she'd realised that it didn't bother her at all.

Sometime after that - in exchange for information that had helped her prevent a terrorist attack on Dekuuna that would have resulted in hundreds of fatalities - she'd agreed to take out a krogan Battlemaster who'd been causing the Broker unspecified problems in the Terminus Systems. A krogan with links to criminal gangs on Omega and beyond. She didn't know - hadn't asked - exactly why the Broker wanted him dead, but while infiltrating his hideout she'd found the cages where he kept the slave children he was shipping out to the Hegemony. After that it had been a pleasure to watch him burn.

That was how they continued to operate: trading intelligence, trading favours. Sometimes there were items that the Broker wanted to go missing; sometimes there were engineering projects he wanted to fail; sometimes there were people he wanted disposed of. Nothing a Spectre couldn't handle.

It still didn't bother her. Never had, though she knew that some of the other Spectres gossiped and whispered about her behind her back. That idiot Kryik wasn't the first, and she knew he wouldn't be the last. But he didn't matter. None of them did. She'd never done anything that she thought would hurt the Republics, never acted against the Council's best interests, never killed anybody she knew didn't deserve it. Her conscience was clear.

She imagined that the Broker must have quite a well developed dossier on her by this point. All sorts of incriminating evidence that could prove embarrassing for her if she ever had second thoughts and tried to act against him. A sensible precaution - she'd even be a bit disappointed if he hadn't - but, in her case, unnecessary. She wasn't about to spoil a good thing. The intel the Broker had supplied her with had helped her do more for the galaxy than she ever could have done by herself. Whatever he'd expected of her in return had been a price she'd paid gladly.

The only thing that had ever given her pause was the rumour she'd heard that the Broker was really a rogue AI, She'd never quite credited it, but it had unsettled her all the same. AI - like the geth, who had taken over the quarian homeworld when she'd been a girl of barely fifty years - were a threat to all organic life. They couldn't be trusted, couldn't be negotiated with. Anybody working to further their interests - even unknowingly - was a traitor to all galactic civilisation.

But the harder she thought about it, the harder it was for her to believe. The Broker simply didn't act like an AI. Oh, it was true that he could be both disturbingly quick-thinking and - at times - surprisingly ignorant about how galactic life worked. She'd decided pretty quickly that he wasn't an asari; he simply didn't think like one, or like anybody else she knew. But at the same time, he was often highly emotional: egotistical and prone to fits of sudden furious anger. Those weren't traits anybody had ever associated with the geth. That wasn't how any AI behaved.

In the end she'd just decided it was another baseless rumour and forced herself to stop worrying without evidence.

She'd also heard the rumour that said the Broker was a volus. She actually rather hoped that one was true.

A few hours later, while the smuggler's shuttle was just drifting into Iela System, her QEC flashed a silent acknowledgement. The information she'd requested - security codes, blueprints, schedules - would be waiting for her on Horizon when she arrived. The Broker had even added a personalised postscript.

⟨⟨ _Try not to kill anyone this time. ⟩⟩_

She'd see where this smuggler was going, first and then … well, after that things might get interesting.

⟨⟨ _No promises, Boss. ⟩⟩_ she typed.

* * *

In the end it was almost too easy. She truly didn't have to kill anyone. She didn't even kill the smuggler, though she managed to ping him with a tracker dart while he was heading off for whatever illicit rendezvous he'd flown here to make. That was something she'd follow up on another day.

The Broker's message led her to a storage locker on the spaceport; inside the locker was an unmarked OSD filled with all the information she'd requested.

General Williams had been a powerful figure in the Alliance, and remained a popular one with at least most of the human species. A war hero, thanks to his work securing the alliance with the turian Hierarchy that had saved Mindoir, Horizon, Dobrovolski and Tiptree from destruction at the hands of the batarians. First President of the Systems Alliance after the human worlds accepted Protectorate status. Even in retirement, his influence on those four worlds was considerable.

It was perhaps no surprise that he'd chosen to spend his twilight years on Horizon. And no surprise either that the people of Horizon had granted him enough land to build a small mansion on the outskirts of their largest settlement ( _'a city',_ the locals called it, much to her amusement). The mansion itself was surprisingly tasteful, Vasir was forced to admit, the architecture showing signs of both asari and turian influence. As a human leader, Williams had always been linked with the political factions that argued for greater integration with galactic civilisation; she supposed it was perhaps no surprise that this sentiment was reflected in his personal life as well.

The guards patrolling the estate were well-trained; watchful and alert. By human standards, anyway. Not that it mattered. Not when she had the Broker's intel, picking out the guards' routines and search patterns and plotting them invisibly before her eyes, not when she had the protection of her tactical cloak, bending light and shadow to hide her from view. Not when she had mastered the art of camouflage and infiltration before any of these guards' grandmothers had first drawn breath. She was asari, she was a Spectre - the best of the best - and how could mere humans hope to challenge her?

The target had been right where the Broker's intel said it would be. A small building, out on the outskirts of the Williams family estate. A 'mausoleum', as she knew it was called from her earlier exploration of the extranet. The same building housed the remains of both General Williams late wife and their only son. But the General's granddaughter's ashes were in pride of place: filling a simple yet finely crafted urn that sat on a slightly raised plinth in the centre of the inner chamber.

She'd taken a sample of the ashes and slipped away back into the darkness of the night.

Back in the 'city' - in the cheap hotel room she'd rented under an assumed name, and filled with all the computers and equipment she could scrounge together - she waited impatiently while the basic VI she'd set up ran through its gamut of tests and analyses. If she was older, she might have had the patience to meditate, to reflect on the unchanging flux of the Universe. But she was young yet, so she paced.

When they came, the test results were conclusive.

"These ashes aren't human."

She spoke the words out loud, though there was nobody to hear them but the VI, who only looked back at her blankly.

The faint traces of amino acids left in the cremated remains weren't even levo. Somebody had burnt up the remains of a dead quarian or - more likely - a turian, and handed them over to the girl's grieving family. Given the prominent place the ashes had been gifted, she doubted the family were in on the deception. Superstitious human ritual though it might be, somehow she found that that almost made her feel sorry for them.

It all fit in with the information she'd been able to pull from the Cerberus computers back on Eden Prime. One more piece of the jigsaw.

She turned to the VI, still waiting patiently for orders.

"I don't think Ashley Williams is dead," she told it. "I don't know what happened to her, but I think Cerberus do. And I think I'm going to find her."


	15. Ghosts

Shepard picked her way cautiously through the shadows.

The mess hall was dark, but she somehow knew that the tables were crowded, full of familiar faces. Without looking, she knew she'd find the usual mixture of turian soldiers and human auxiliaries in the old familiar corners. Everything was unchanged, as constant as if she'd never been away.

 _What am I doing here?_ she thought, suddenly uneasy. Then she wondered what had made her think that. She was back on the _Resolute_ , back home. This was where she was supposed to be.

She'd been having trouble sleeping lately, she dimly recalled, but she couldn't remember why. _Dreams, maybe?_ Surely not. She couldn't remember dreaming, not for a very long time.

She wandered from table to table, seeking conversation, distraction. The ship seemed to rock slightly underfoot, as if buffeted by turbulence. _But that's ridiculous_ , she thought to herself. _We're out in the middle of nowhere_. _We're_ \- she wasn't entirely sure where they were, actually. They were fighting … something. Not batarians or privateers, for once. Something else, something more dangerous, something … _older_. She wasn't sure why the lights had gone out. Or when. Somehow the lack of light didn't seem to trouble any of the other people who filled the hall.

 _The darkness must-_ she wasn't sure how to finish the thought.

She wasn't the only person on her feet, she realised suddenly. A turian officer stood by the shuttered port windows, staring pensively at the wall as if he could see out beyond the hull.

 _Ripper_. She recognised him: a biotic, a fellow Cabal member. They'd fought together on Torfan, not that long ago. _How long, exactly?_ She couldn't quite remember. But for some reason - she couldn't put her finger on why - something about his being here didn't seem to make sense. Why was a voice in the back of her mind whispering that something was very badly wrong?

"The stars will be setting soon," the turian said quietly, turning to look at her. Instead of the simple white face markings she remembered, his face was crisscrossed with countless small wounds, face coloured dark-blue by a spiralling maze of scabs and scar tissue.

"Setting?" she echoed. "I don't understand. Which stars?"

"All of them, in time," replied a different, but still familiar voice. "The lights are going out across the galaxy."

The newcomer was a human, like her. Another brother-in-arms from the Cabal. _Kyle_. He nodded to her, respectfully, and she averted her eyes from the stump that was all that remained of his right arm.

"Night's falling," Ripper agreed. "The darkness of eternity. The skies are growing dark on every world." The tones of his voice suggested he was quite resigned to this prospect, almost bored. _That's not right_ , she thought. _That's not how we should-_

She didn't know what to say. "Shouldn't we warn people? The Primarchs? The Council?"

"Why?" said Ripper, puzzled.

"Nothing lasts forever," said Kyle, shaking his head sadly. "The end is inevitable." The ship rocked again, buffeted by … _by what?_ Neither Kyle nor Ripper seemed bothered by the shaking of the ship. She wondered if they'd even noticed it.

Something about the calm way they both stared at her made her nervous.

She backed away slowly, and almost collided with another crew member. She was already starting to apologise when she suddenly recognised him, though his face was covered in ash and soot and his head was wrapped in bandages.

"Jenkins," she said. "You're … here." _But where else would he be?_ Of course he was here. Why had she expected anything else?

"Hey, Commander!" Jenkins was full of enthusiasm, just like he always was. _Is_ , she corrected herself. _Always is_.

Ripper and Kyle both nodded respectfully to Jenkins, who grinned back at them. She hadn't realised they knew each other. Hadn't- she froze, suddenly remembering. Jenkins couldn't be here. Richard Jenkins had died on Eden Prime, on her watch. She'd flown down to the planet with him and flown back without him. The creature wearing his face, chatting amiably with Ripper and Kyle and the others … that wasn't him. It couldn't be him. She frowned, still feeling she was missing something important.

"Hey, Shep. Good of you to finally drop by."

She recognised the voice, though it wasn't one she'd heard in years. Somebody else she'd gone down planetside with, and who hadn't ever come back. Jacob Taylor. Or was that the same mission? She'd have to ask him. Had there really been thresher maws on Eden Prime?

 _No, that was on another planet_ , she thought, head still full of fog. _And besides, Jacob is-_

"Dead?" he grinned, showing far more teeth than seemed possible. Close up, she could see the damage the thresher maw had done to his face: acid burns scarred across his cheeks, nose and forehead, hair burned away, one eye blind white "We're all dead, Shep. Some of us just had the sense to stop moving."

The floor rocked again, and as the rocking subsided Shepard heard the whole ship reverberate with the sound of something heavy and fluid battering against the hull. The _Resolute_ wasn't built to withstand external pressure, and the whole ship seemed to creak and whine painfully in response, sounding almost like an animal in distress.

 _This is a dream_ , she told herself. _A nightmare_. _I'm going to wake up and-_

The door opened behind her, and sudden light flooded into the mess hall.

The figure who stepped through the doorway was Garrus Vakarian. Lean and nervous; scarred face and torn mandibles not quite distracting from the sheepish expression on his face. The crowded hall broke into applause - not loud, but respectful - and a couple of indistinct figures pushed forward to guide him to a seat next to Richard Jenkins.

 _No,_ she thought suddenly. _He doesn't belong here. Not him_.

Vakarian glanced over at her and murmured something under his breath which made Jenkins laugh out loud. None of them seemed concerned about the growing cracks in the hull, or the dark liquid that was beginning to seep through.

"Doesn't belong here?" Jacob asked. He'd sounded almost amused before, but now he sounded angry. She hadn't realised that she'd spoken out loud. "Didn't you leave him to die like the rest of us? Do we belong here?"

She looked at him, Jacob Taylor, sixteen years old, fresh-faced and dead. Dead because of her, because she hadn't been ready, because she hadn't been good enough.

"I'm sorry, Jacob," she said quietly, knowing that the words weren't enough. _Nothing I do will ever be enough_. "None of you deserved…"

Jacob was already gone. Everyone was gone, suddenly; the shadowy crowds vanishing back into the gloom.

The liquid was beginning to drip from the ceilings now, drops striking the metal floor with a hard ringing sound, splattering all on board with a fine warm mist. She recognised it then, a familiar metallic taste in the back of her mouth. A taste and a smell she remembered from her last days on Mindoir, from the tunnels under Torfan, from Akuze, from Epyrus, from a dozen other minor worlds.

 _It's blood_ , she thought numbly. _We're flying through an ocean of blood._

* * *

Shepard forced her eyes to open. Tried to control her breathing. The _Resolute_ , Jacob,... none of that was real. Jacob was dead, just like Ripper, Kyle, Jenkins, and all the others. But she was alive. She was …

She was lying on a steel operating table, staring up at the featureless blank ceiling above her. Everything was quiet, except for the distant mechanised hum of the air filtration units. _Her amp was missing_.

The sudden realisation was enough to make her lurch upright,

There was no sign of it anywhere nearby, though she ransacked the nearby shelves and cupboards frantically. Her amp was gone, vanished without a trace. There was no sign of whoever had taken it.

And there was no sign of anybody else, either.. Not in the medical bay she'd woken up, not in the halls or corridors outside. Not in the neighbouring cabins.

She walked up and down the hallways, calling out, but nobody responded. Her boots echoed flatly in the still air as she paced forwards. She'd not travelled far when she realised she was circling back on her starting position. She was on some sort of station or research outpost, she decided. A simple torus shape, drifting in the void. An orbital observation platform, perhaps?.

Whatever the station's original purpose, it was one that - judging by the dimming lights and stale air - had been long abandoned. None of the communications equipment seemed to be working. The few terminals she found were shut down, inactive. _Lifeless_. She was trapped. No way off the station, no way to signal for help. No company but the few faint stars visible from the windows, the blank terminal screens and the whispering voice on the edge of hearing.

Shepard froze, the thought unfinished. She wasn't alone at all. It suddenly seemed so obvious.

There was something out there. Not on the station, but outside. The station was empty, the galaxy cold and dying. But all the same, there was something out there.

In the dark empty spaces that should have been filled with nothing but the dimming lights of dying stars, something was waiting. Watching. Something old, calculating. A being that had been ancient when her ancestors were singled-celled. A mind that never slept, never wavered; a creature that waited in the void between galaxies while younger species stumbled about in ignorance in the bright clusters of stars.

And now its attention was focused on her.

" _ **Shepard,**_ " She felt the voice as much as she heard it: felt it shaking the structure of the station all around her, felt it as an aching pain behind her skull. " _ **You cannot stop us.**_ ".

 _It knew her name_. She said nothing, forcing herself to breath steadily, aware of her heart beating loudly in her chest. Her fingers flexed uselessly at her side. Where was her amp? She'd had it on Omega, but the krogan... The voice spoke again, patient but insistent.

" _ **Shepard.**_ "

* * *

"Shepard?"

She woke up with a start.

"Easy, Commander."

She didn't recognise her surroundings - though she saw enough to know that she wasn't on the _Resolute_ \- but she recognised the voice. _Vakarian_. _Not dead._

They were in a strange room, living quarters she didn't think she'd ever seen before. _At least it's not another med-bay_ , she thought. From the distant humming in the background and the familiar faint smell of recycled air, she guessed that they were on a ship.

She sat up carefully, bracing herself for a sudden surge of vertigo. Vakarian was sitting on one of the other beds, face still wrapped in bandages. His visor was on the table next to him. Without it, he looked younger than ever, though his expression was troubled.

"... where are we?" she asked.

Vakarian fumbled his visor back on, as if suddenly aware of its absence. "What's the last thing you remember?" he asked, adjusting the settings of the visor with the talons of one hand as he spoke

Shepard frowned. "We killed … no, the asari killed Garm," she said. "Then .. I'm not sure. Something about somebody's missing daughter?"

Vakarian nodded.

"The commandos we met on Omega work for an asari Matriarch called Benezia," he said. "Never met her myself, but I get the sense she's kind of a big deal. It's her daughter who's missing."

He finally seemed content with the visor's settings, and let his hand fall back to his side as he kept talking.

"The asari are heading back to the Citadel now. This is their ship - Shiala, their leader, suggested we might want to come with them."

Vakarian shook his head.

"Frankly, I'm not surprised you don't remember this - you almost passed out around the time we boarded the ship. Shiala said you'd been pushing your biotics hard."

Shepard nodded, then immediately regretted it as she suffered another wave of dizziness.

"What happened to the others?" she asked. "The turian and salarian I was with?"

"The salarian's with us," Vakarian said. "Insisted on going back to his clinic to pick up some of his equipment, which the asari didn't seem thrilled by. But he made a big fuss about how he needed medical supplies; said that both of us could be in trouble if he wasn't able to treat us properly."

"Both of us," he repeated quietly, looking at her curiously.

"He's exaggerating, I'm sure," she said. "I had a bit of a fall-"

"-you fell off the top of a building," Vakarian protested. "I still understand how you survived that. I'm not sure the doctor understands either, frankly."

"I got lucky," she said, hoping she was right. "Just managed to pull off a biotic trick I was taught once."

There was a brief lull in the conversation; Vakarian shifted uncomfortably before speaking again.

"The salarian says that Prothean device we found really did a number on you," he said. "Not his exact words, but I think I got the gist of it." He sounded concerned.

 _He's probably exaggerating_ , she told herself firmly.. She wasn't sure if she meant the doctor or the Spectre.

"What about Kandros?" she asked instead.

"The mercenary?" Vakarian shrugged again. "She disappeared. Literally, in fact. Vanished from sight even while the asari were debating whether they should let her go back to report to Aria."

 _Another benefit of owning a tactical cloak_ , thought Shepard, briefly envious.

"Well, I should…" Shepard trailed off. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do now.

Vakarian noticed her "I can give you some space, if you need to rest" he said. "I gather we're still a few hours away from the Citadel."

She thought about going back to sleep. Thought about her dream. Skies growing dark on every world, hungry monsters lurking in the depths of space.. No, she didn't want to go back to sleep.

Vakarian looked over at her thoughtfully.

"Bad dreams?" he asked.

"I-" Her first instinct was to deny it, but the lie would have been too obvious. "Yeah."

"Seems to be the night for them," the Spectre said ruefully. "I kept waking up thinking I was back on Omega. Figured I'd take the hint and try to get something more productive done with my time instead."

".. I'm sorry we didn't get to kill Garm," she offered.

"Yeah, well," the turian shook his head. "At least somebody did."

There was another uncomfortable pause for a few minutes; Vakarian seemingly on the cusp of speaking yet holding back, worried that he was going to let slip something he'd regret. Shepard knew that feeling, from both sides of the conversation.. Had seen it on the face of more than one subordinate after a mission went bad . She gave Vakarian a few minutes to compose himself.

"I thought I was going to die," he admitted finally, staring down at the floor. "And I thought … if I did, would ... " He trailed off.

"I'm glad you're alive, Vakarian," she said quietly, looking him in the eyes. "I've lost a lot of people over the years. Too many. I'm glad you're not one of them."

Shepard frowned to herself. If Vakarian had been a subordinate, she'd have recommended he go and talk to a counsellor before letting him back on active service. She wondered if anybody on the Council had ever bothered to arrange counselling sessions for the Spectres they sent out to do their dirty work. Somehow she didn't think so.

"You said you were trying to do something productive?" she asked gently. As she'd guessed, Vakarian seemed relieved by the excuse to change topics.

"I've been trying to write a message to my sister," he said. "Been putting it off for a while, actually."

"Older sister or younger?" she asked. She'd have liked a sister, she thought. Younger, preferably. _I'd have liked a lot of things I'm not going to get_.

"Older," he said. "By a few years. Maybe that's why … well, I guess we don't have the best of relationships." She didn't need to be able to hear turian subharmonics to notice the regret in his voice.

"What does your sister do?" she asked.

"She's a marine," he said. "Serving with the Seventy-Ninth Flotilla."

"The Seventy-Ninth?" Shepard asked, curious. "Was she at Indris?" The Battle of Indris, fought in the opening weeks of the Second Blitz, had been the first and only full-scale engagement between the fleets of the Hierarchy and the Hegemony. Batarian raiders and privateers had engaged with advanced elements of the Hierarchy forces, drawing them out of position and into the path of the Hegemony's Kite's Nest Fleet, which had somehow managed to redeploy from the Harsa system to Indris without being detected by Hierarchy intelligence. The Seventh-Ninth Flotilla had been among those turian ships caught up in the batarian ambush: badly outnumbered and outgunned until other ships of the Hierarchy were able to relieve them.

Vakarian nodded, a guarded look on his face.

"She was," he said slowly. "She was on the _Indomitable_." He paused, long enough for Shepard to recognise the name. The _Indomitable_ had been the last of the turian dreadnaughts to be destroyed; guarding the Indris mass relay to allow the Hierarchy relief forces safe passage into the system. Shepard had had heard that casualties had been high: Vakarian's sister was lucky to be alive.

"I was still in training, back then," he said, now seeming to talk to himself as much as to her. "Just been accepted onto the Spectre recruitment program. They granted me emergency leave to visit her in hospital, afterwards. And to attend the award ceremony a few months later, "

There was more of a story there, Shepard realised, but it wasn't one that Vakarian seemed interested in repeating.

"After the Blitz…" he said slowly. "Well. The Council approved a number of turian applications for Spectre status. Some people said that was because the Council wanted to mend fences with the Hierarchy Maybe they were right. The Council hadn't exactly given us their full support against the Hegemony."

"Did we all deserve it?" He shrugged again. "I thought so, at the time. Or at least I thought I did. Maybe …"

He trailed off.. Shepard hoped that he didn't regret speaking up.

"You should finish writing to your sister," she said firmly, then - belatedly remembering that she was talking to a Spectre and not to a subordinate - "Sir."

* * *

Hours later, Shepard was still awake, fingers twitching and makeshift targets falling to the floor as she worked through one of her usual practice routines. Normally she'd found this was a good way to tire herself out when insomnia hit, but it didn't seem to be helping much this time.

 _Maybe it's time to try something different_ , she thought. Like most human biotics, she'd always found brute force easier to achieve than finesse. At least, that's what her old asari instructor had said. Perhaps it was worth spending some time to try to address that.

This time, when she stacked the targets around the hold, she laid them down flat, scattered in a wide circle around her. She steadied herself, took a deep breath, then as she breathed out her fingers twitched and she began.

The target closest to her rose first, spinning gently counterclockwise as she lifted it up to head height with fine strands of dark energy. Then - still keeping the first target moving - she lifted the next target, then the next. Each one she set spinning at a slightly different pace, always keeping the spinning constant once it had begun. Her fingers trembled slightly as she fought against both her own instincts and the artificial gravity of the asari ship.

Finally she came full circle, and let the targets sink back into once place.

She checked her omni-tool for her time. The whole thing - lifting just over a dozen targets and keeping them all rotating in the air - had taken about five minutes.

 _Too slow_ , she chided herself, shaking her head. The next time she was quicker, but still not fast enough. She wasn't fast enough the next time either, but as she was picking up the targets for another attempt she realised she'd drawn an audience.

 _Shiala_. The asari was standing by the door, an appraising look on her face. Shepard wondered briefly how long she'd been watching, if she'd been filing away observations on Shepard's technique in the manner of her old asari instructor.

"I expected to find you in the medical bay," the asari said. Maybe it was just Shepard's imagination that made the comment sound reproving.

"Couldn't sleep," she replied curtly, setting the targets back in position.

"It's … Shepard, right?" It had been a long time since anybody had called her anything else, unless they were addressing her by rank, she thought. _Well, rank or species_.

She just nodded, back still to the asari. The targets were almost all back in place.

"The salarian - Professor Solus - says that you were affected by a Prothean device." Shiala seemed sceptical. "He says that it left some sort of fragmentary message imprinted on your mind."

Shepard shrugged, rolling her shoulders. _The doctor talks too much_ , she thought absently, resetting the last of her makeshift targets. This time she'd do better.

She'd made it about half way around when the asari spoke again.

"Documented cases of exposure to Prothean technology are rare,"

Shepard ignored her, as best she could; attention focused only on lifting one target after another, on keeping them all spinning in the air at the same constant height as she moved around the room.

"Professor Solus says you've been having trouble sleeping."

Her control wavered for just an instant. That was all it took for things to go wrong. First one of her makeshift targets began to wobble, then both its neighbours. The remaining targets clattered to the ground one after the other,

"Does he?" she said softly, turned around and looking up at the asari coldly.

"Perhaps I can help?" the asari said carefully. It was hard to tell what an asari was thinking if she didn't want you to know - impossible to, according to the asari - but Shepard thought Shiala seemed as close to guileless as it was possible for any asari to be.

"... okay," Shepard relented, suddenly aware of how ungrateful she must seem. Aware and a little shamed. _You don't have the luxury of sulking,_ she reminded herself. _Whether you like it or not, you're the first example of a human auxiliary most aliens are going to meet. You're representing the whole Hierarchy, not just yourself_.

She thought about apologising, but couldn't think of a way to do it that wouldn't have been even more awkward. Instead she simply followed the commando to a corner of the hold, to a small bank of desks and tables.

Shiala motioned her to take a seat, and Shepard sat carefully in front of her.

"Just tell me what to do," she said.

"Try to relax, Commander," the asari said gently, resting one hand gently on Shepard's forehead as she spoke. "Let go of your physical shell. Reach out to grasp the threads that bind us together. Open yourself to the universe. Embrace…"

The words had the sound of a familiar mantra. Shepard idly wondered how often the asari had repeated it before. Hundreds, she guessed, if not thousands. She wondered idly what it must be like to live for so-

Then abruptly she was falling upwards, leaving the asari, the ship, her body and her concerns far below her. She felt impossibly light - not just the familiar lightness of zero gravity, but as if her whole being was made of light, shining out into the depths of space.

She saw stars all around her: impossibly bright and impossibly close; shimmering fragile clouds surrounded by the vast, desolate ocean of dark space. She was aware of herself, her presence, but it felt nothing like her physical form. No vertigo, no hunger or nausea. Glancing down, she realised that she could see through her foot to the stars shining below. She could see her bones like fragments of glass, shimmering in the light of the stars through her translucent, ghostly skin.

Then - not entirely of her own volition - her gaze moved up and outwards, to the galactic rim and beyond. Far away, further still than the distant stars of the Magellanic clouds, she could feel that something was waiting. Something impossibly old, something perpetually hungry. Something she thought she remembered. _But_ -

" _ **You cannot escape your destiny, Shepard.**_ "

She forced her eyes shut. Tried to. It didn't help; she could still see it all: the shadow on the horizon, darker than dark space. Visions of a colourless void streching out sweeping over the galaxy, swallowing planets and extinguishing stars in its wake.

She heard fearful screams of anguish and the incessant whirring of mechanised blades. Behind that, faint echoes of distant mocking laughter. She looked down again: Her form was growing more opaque, though it seemed strangely grey and lifeless, limbs hanging stiffly and unresponsive. She could see alien _things_ rippling beneath her skin, their insectoid bodies writhing and borrowing. She opened her mouth to scream, felt them clutching and swarming inside her throat. Tasted blood and bile.

Then pain. Fire. Darkness.

Then she was back in the cargo hold, blinking back tears, vision shaking. A dull ache had begun to build inside her forehead. _How long was I out?_ It must have been only seconds, but it felt like longer. Days, maybe. Weeks. She didn't know what Shiala had seen - whether she'd had the same experience or something else entirely - but the previously implacable asari looked shaken by the experience, too disturbed by what she'd seen in Shepard's mind to try to hide her unease.

"That was … I have never ..." Shiala trailed off, visibly uncertain, almost all trace of her former composure gone. "We must hurry to the Citadel to meet with Matriarch Benezia. I am- I am sure she will be able to help."


	16. Fractures

| Seven Years Ago | 2173 CE, old Earth style | Arcturus Station |

"Is this some kind of joke?"

The recruiting officer sitting behind the desk didn't seem amused, though he'd been the one to ask the question. Jeff fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling scruffy and underdressed. Just like he always did when surrounded by turians. His big plan - which had seemed like such a great idea as late as this morning - now seemed anything but. _Why didn't I shave, at least?_ He resisted the urge to scratch the stubble around his cheeks. No point in drawing any more attention to it.

"It's no joke, sir." he insisted, embarrassed at how frail his voice sounded. Painfully aware of how out of place he must seem here, simultaneously too old and too inexperienced.

Turians enlisted in the military at age fifteen; and even though Arcturus was a human station, there were just enough turian families on board to justify the presence of a recruitment centre like this one. He'd passed a handful of young turians waiting idly at the doors on his way in; felt their stares on his back - curious, hostile, pitying … he wasn't sure which would be worse =- as he'd slowly made his way up the short flight of steps to the entrance.

By the time they reached his age, those kids would have been through boot camp, been taught how to fight, how to follow orders, how to react during a crisis as a disciplined and purposeful unit. They'd have been well on the way to becoming full citizens of the Hierarchy; expected to serve in the military; to defend Council space from slavers, pirates and whatever else the rest of the galaxy had in store. They wouldn't expect to be in his shoes, only just out of school and still looking for a first job.

 _They'd probably be expected to be able to walk up a staircase without having to lean on a stick, too_.

The turian officer just looked at him wordlessly for a few minutes, judging him silently, maybe waiting from his nerve to break. Jeff was used to that sort of treatment, though. It barely bothered him … most of the time. He forced himself to sit back, carefully; tried to moderate his breathing. _It's not my nerve that's going to break_.

After a few minutes the turian had clearly had enough.

"So," he said briskly. "Can you tear down fortified artillery with your mind? Can you float through the air over the battlefield, shielding allies and raining down destruction on the enemy?"

Jeff shook his head wordlessly, though the turian didn't seem to be waiting for an answer.

"The Primarchs have decided that human biotics may join the ranks of the auxiliaries," the officer said flatly. "And biotics alone. Non-biotic humans are not expected to join, and you …"

The turian paused, mandibles flexing slightly. Jeff had the impression he was trying to be tactful. _Lots of people do, at first._ The thought was somewhat bitter.

"You are not a biotic, and so I ask:" - he steepled his talons, staring at Jeff intently across the desk - "Why are you here?"

"I'm a pilot," Jeff said, voice firmer than before. It was true: just like he'd said on his application papers. The same papers the turian was now staring at suspiciously. He'd passed top of his class in all the training courses he'd been allowed to take; even a couple of extranet-only ones where'd he had to lie about his species just to enroll. He'd spent more hours in the simulator than plenty of fully qualified commercial pilots he knew; had posted faster times than most people had thought possible.

The point was that he was good. He knew it, and anybody who bothered to test him would know it. He just needed a chance to prove it to somebody who mattered. He just needed a chance.

"A pilot."

On the extranet,Jeff had read that turian emotional responses were mostly expressed through subvocal signals; audio cues which no human could expect to pick up and translate in real-time. So he had to be imagining the look of contempt on the officer's face. Didn't he?

"Do you even know the first thing about piloting a spaceship?".the turian asked wearily, dropping the papers back to his desk with a depressing impression of finality.

"I know a lot." Jeff insisted, painfully aware how feeble the response sounded. But it was the simple truth. _Did anybody even read my application?_

Growing up, his parents had both been engineers, trained on Earth. They'd help design some of the very ships that had brought his family out from Sol, back in the brief period before the Charon relay failed. He'd spent most of his childhood - even after the divorce - around spaceship designs, blueprints, models and images. In hospital beds, at home alone recovering, lying awake and night listening to his parents shouting - he'd shut his eyes, and see the stars.

Whatever happened, all he wanted to do, ever, was fly.

But that wasn't a point he was going to get to make today, he realised. What he wanted didn't seem to matter much. Maybe this had just been a bad idea from the start.

The recruiting officer certainly seemed to think so.

"Can you run an assault course in a Hierarchy-standard combat suit, carrying the full weight of your weapon and your kit?" he asked, staring pointedly at the stick Jeff had left propped up against the side of his chair. "Can you carry your comrades to safety if they're wounded? Can you defend your position if ordered to hold against overwhelming numbers? In short, can you fight?"

They both knew he couldn't, of course. That's what made the whole thing so pointless. But he'd had to try, hadn't he? How else was he going to get into space?

"I know how to fly," he insisted anyway. That was all that mattered. "I just want a-"

The turian had clearly lost his patience. Tact was no longer on the agenda.

""Look, kid," he said heavily, cutting Jeff off mid-sentence. "The Hierarchy has the best pilots in the galaxy. We saved the asari and the salarians from the krogan, and we saved your people from the batarians. If the Hegemony doesn't see sense, we'll beat the batarians all the way back to Harsa System. And we won't need to resort to alien cripples to do it."

Years later, on the rare occasions he could be persuaded to retell this story, Jeff always ended things here.

* * *

| Five Years Ago | 2175 CE, old Earth style | the Citadel |

"Hey, watch the arm!"

The turian escorting Jeff snorted and shook his head in disbelief. Turians never seemed to appreciate just how fragile some human bodies were. Small wonder when even the average turian was so much taller, stronger and tougher than most humans could hope to be. Particularly more so than Jeff could hope to be.

All of which had bothered Jeff a lot less a couple of hours ago. He was uncomfortably aware of it now, as a disapproving turian officer ushered him into a small, bland room halfway down a short, featureless corridor.

"Look, human," the turian said, wearily - this wasn't the first time Jeff had complained, but it was the first his escort had felt moved to respond -."It's not that much further to go. Why not cheer yourself up by thinking about how lucky you are that the officer you assaulted isn't pressing charges?"

"Isn't pressing charges?" Jeff protested. "He broke my wrist!"

Any reply the C-Sec officer might have made to that was precluded by the arrival of the woman they'd come to see. She was slight of build, with graying hair and curious, thoughtful eyes. Jeff's first thought was that she seemed unusually alert given the early hour.

But that was him thinking like a visitor, not somebody used to the strange ways of the Citadel. Unlike up on the Presiduum, there was no artificial day-night cycle down in the Wards. For her, maybe this was just the middle of another shift. Besides, a doctor - a human doctor - who worked in the far ends of the Wards would have to be ready to deal with the unexpected.

On closer inspection, something about her actually reminded him a bit of his mom, though he couldn't have said exactly why. They didn't look too similar, but she seemed to carry herself in the same way his mom had: quietly confident, interested in the galaxy around her yet unafraid of it.

He didn't want to think about that much, he realised.

"What's going on here, gentlemen?" the woman asked. Her voice was louder than he'd expected; her accent was unfamiliar. _Earth, maybe?_ He guessed she was old enough. You didn't tend to meet many people who were, out here.

"Patient for you, doc." said the turian. "Had a bit too much to drink down at the Archos."

The doctor raised an eyebrow, though she didn't ask for details.

"Thank you, Officer Chellick," she said. "I'll take it from here."

Once the turian from C-Sec had departed, the woman turned her attention back to Jeff.

"Karin Chakwas," she said by was of introduction. "And you are?

"Jeff," he said, "Uh. Jeffrey Moreau."

"And how can I help you today Mr Moreau?" she asked drily, as if the arm he held cradled awkwardly at his side wasn't a clue.

"Broke a bone or two, doc," he said sheepishly. "Fifth metacarpal and scaphoid for sure, maybe some others."

Her expression suggested that she'd be taking any self-diagnosis with a very large pinch of salt.

"Did Officer Chellick give you any treatment before bring you to me?" she asked instead.

"Just some painkillers and some medi-gel," he said. _And a stern lecture on the moral and practical merits of respecting the officers of Citadel Security. Let's not forget that._

"Well, let's get that hand scanned then." she said, briskly professional, leading Jeff into a room at the back of the medical clinic and waiting for hm to take a seat beneath a familiar-looking medical scanner.

While the machine whirred into life, Chakwas tapped out some commands on a terminal that rested on what Jeff assumed must be her desk. Checking if he was in the system, he guessed. He wasn't, of course, though he should have been. He'd been living on the station for long enough.

"And what do you do, Mr Moreau?" she asked, eyes appraising him carefully even while she still typed. From the way the screen was flashing in time with the machines, he guessed it was feeding her imaging results directly.

"I'm a-" _-pilot_ , he wanted to finish, but...- "-shipping clerk." At least he got to watch the ships.

The doctor was quiet for a moment or two, intent on the progress of her scans.

"You were right about the bones, I'm afraid," she said. "What did you do: punch a wall?"

"A C-Sec officer, actually." He'd never thrown a punch in anger before - hadn't seemed like the sort of skill he'd need to use.

"Well, speaking as a medical professional, I can't say I'd recommend that." Chakwas said drily. "Especially for somebody with your condition."

He sighed. It always came back to this, didn't it? Vrolik's syndrome, brittle bone disease, or osteogenesis imperfecta if you wanted to be fancy. This was why he'd stayed away from doctors for as long as he could ever since he'd first moved onto the Citadel half a year ago.

"Any family history?"

"We don't think so." he said. Not that his Mom had known much about her birth family, of course. "When I was growing up the doctors suggested it might be environmental; one of those early element zero spills or something."

 _Figures that all the other kids who got exposed to that stuff would get super-powers and I'd get … this_.

"You didn't grow up on the Citadel, did you?"

He shook his head. "My Mom worked on Arcturus station; Dad's a colonist on Tiptree. I only moved out here a year or so ago. Why?"

"Well, Mr Moreau … Jeff?"

It took him a little while to realise that she was asking him whether it was okay to use his first name. That wasn't something he was used to on the Citadel, where being addressed as anything other than 'human' was as polite and friendly as he'd expect. Fortunately she seemed to take his silence as consent.

"I think you'd benefit from some time away from the Citadel," she said, carefully. "This station's rotational gravity isn't like anywhere else you might have lived. And the Protheans who built it didn't have physiologies like ours."

She frowned.

"For most humans, gravity in the Wards is close enough to Earth-normal they'll never notice the difference. But with your condition … well, to be frank, the ongoing stress on your bones could have serious long-term consequences."

"What should I do?" he asked. He'd not noticed anything himself; but then again he'd been pretty intent on avoiding anything to do with doctors or medical treatment for as long as he'd been living on the Wards. Sure, he felt lousy, but - for once in his life - his 'condition' wasn't the reason for that.

"Does your mother still work on Arcturus?" Chakwas asked casually.

"No, she." He paused, struggling with his own reactions. _I really shouldn't have had so much to drink last night_. He didn't really want to talk about this now, but-

"She was on the _Espero_ ," he managed to get out. ( _She's dead_ , he managed not to say.)

Just days after the sudden failure of the Charon mass relay, disparate groups of investors and scientists in the colonies had begun working on response plans. Between them, the remaining colonies had just enough resources to build a small fleet of FTL-capable ships, a fleet which could perhaps travel the long way back to Earth. It was a journey that would take years, but for most of the colonists - alone and abandoned in an empty and indifferent galaxy - it seemed like the only course of action left.

All that changed when the batarians invaded; slavers and pirates striking human settlements on Mindoir, Tiptree and Dobravalski. Within days of the batarians the ships of the turian Hierarchy had arrived, flooding through mass relays from the other side of the galaxy. The galaxy was far less empty than anybody had thought, and there were creatures in it that wanted to destroy or enslave what little remained of humanity.

After that, most people forgot about the plans for making the difficult voyage back to Sol. Alliance officials began stressing the need to spend resources 'at home', to focus on rebuilding efforts or to trying to establish trading relationships with more technological advanced aliens like the volus or the elcor. Not everyone thought this way - even on Arcturus, the vote on accepting the turian's offer of Protectorate status had seen many vote against - but support dropped enough that resources had to be cut back; plans streamlined and trimmed down again and again.

Rather than an Alliance-wide initiative, this operation would now be a private affair. A small but determined movement, funded by the generosity of a few big wealthy donors and the small but steady donations of activists and supporters. Supporters like the Moreaus, Jeff's family.

His parents hadn't agreed on much, by the end, but they'd both agreed on this. The movement was humanity's last throw of the dice - a last chance for the remnant of humanity living in Council space to find a path towards something resembling autonomy and independence.

The _Espero_ was one of three FTL-capable ships that the group's efforts had finally produced. The crew represented the best that the colonies could still produce: So many people had applied, in the end, that even after screening out all but the most qualified applicants, the organisers had had to resort to a lottery, winnowing the numbers down even further. His mother was one of the lucky ones: the rest of the family would have to stay behind and wait.

The group's supporters called it the Terra Firma project; Jeff had just thought of it as hope. Hope for a better future for the colonies, hope that - despite the speculation - the people of Earth were still alive, that life back in Sol continued as it had for centuries before he'd been born. Some days - waiting in his tiny apartment on Arcturus, scanning the extranet feed for any hints of news - that hope was all he'd had.

Until a year ago, when everything had gone to shit.

Just when the ships had been supposed to be making contact with Earth, they'd all met with disaster. Jeff had still been on Arcturus back then: sitting up most nights with other Terra Firma supporters and well-wishers, watching the ships' progress on a display board that the technical team had set up outside the command centre. He'd been there the day it happened.

The _Xīwàng_ had been the first to lose contact, her signal cutting out just as the ship was due to begin the controlled approach past Demeter. At first most of the team assembled in the observation room to monitor the project's progress had assumed a simple comms failure, though nobody had been able to offer any suggestions as to what sort of failure could interfere with a quantum entanglement device. The crowd Jeff was with had been agitated, sure, but not truly alarmed.

Not until the exact same thing happened to the _Taman_ ,barely an hour later. The _Xīwàng's_ sister ship had taken a different route, bypassing Demeter entirely. A looping route arcing over the galactic plane, avoiding all star systems between the Arcturus Stream and Sol. But just like the first ship - within minutes of the fate that befell the first ship - the _Taman_ 's signal had simply vanished from the screens. This time the technical team stayed silent, and the crowd had begun to stir.

The final ship - the ship his mother had been on - had been the only one transmitting when it vanished: The comms specialist had been reciting the usual list - a list of, to Jeff's ears, all-but-meaningless numbers and acronyms - when they'd suddenly trailed off. When they spoke again they'd sounded … not panicked, as such, but confused, certainly. Worried. None of the ships were in direct communication with each other. The _Espero_ didn't know enough to be afraid.

" _Arcturus, we're seeing something strange on- ..."_

That was the last thing anybody in Council space heard from the _Espero_.

In those moments, Jeff felt the whole galaxy shrinking down to the size of the room he was in. The weight of the crowd around him, the oppressive emptiness of the blank and silent screens. These were the only things that were real. That was what he remembered, when he woke up in his tiny rooms in the Citadel months later in the middle of the night. The day when all that mattered were three missing lights.

Three small points of light flickering out one by one as the three ships converged on their common destination. An awful hush had fallen on the crowd by that point, broken only by the insistent pings still echoing from now abandoned operating stations.

 _My mother is on that ship_ , he'd thought, helplessly. He'd spoken to her only hours before her ship had departed: wished her good luck in a perfunctory, awkward way. Made some dumb joke about piloting the next group of ships himself. Already then his mind had been jumping ahead to his ill-conceived plan to sign up with the Hierarchy auxiliaries as a pilot. They hadn't had a chance to speak since: wouldn't have had until the _Espero_ had reached Earth.

His story wasn't unique, of course. Most of the people watching had family on one or other of the three ships. Or had had family on the three ships. Most of the command team, as well as the watching crowd. One of the technical team had made their way outside to address the crowd, but when he'd tried to speak his voice was so faint that practically nobody could hear him. After a few minutes, the technician stopped even trying: he just stood there, back to the screen, the pain and loss on his face mirroring the emotions of the crowd in front of him.

There was a long period of awful silence, broken only be the persistent, lonely beeps coming from the array of abandoned terminals and work stations.

And that was the end of Terra Firma.

A year ago to the day, now. Which was why he'd been down in that awful little club in the Wards in the first place, drinking until the credits ran out. Why he'd still been drinking when C-Sec turned up, and why he'd thought it was a good idea to take out months of frustration and loneliness and empty rage on the nearest, tallest and most heavily armored turian he could find.

Why he was here now with a broken hand and a bruised ego, while a surprisingly patient doctor waited for him to answer … _wait, what?_

"Jeff? You said you have family on one of the colonies?"

He had the strong sense that this wasn't the first time she'd asked him the question.

"Uh, yeah," he said, shaking his head "Sorry doc, miles away. Dad moved out to Tiptree with my kid sister a few years ago. Haven't been to visit for a while, I guess." The truth was that they'd not spoken at all; not since the events of that night one year ago. It wasn't rational, and it wasn't fair, but Jeff still hadn't forgiven his Dad for leaving his Mom to die.

"Well, I'd think about paying them a visit soon, Jeff," the doctor said. "Ideally for at least a few months. That will give your bones a better chance to heal. Real gravity, that's what you need."

"I'll think about it, doc," he said.

 _For about five seconds_ , he thought to himself as the door slid shut behind him. Maybe he wasn't a pilot, but at least on the Citadel he was surrounded by spacecraft, At least he was in space.

What would he be able to fly on a farming world? Freight transports, planetary cargo shuttles? Tractors? He wasn't in any hurry to find out.

* * *

| Three Years Ago | 2177 CE, old Earth style | Tiptree |

The sunsets on Tiptree were something special, he had to admit. _Two suns will do that for you_.

Not that the view made the climb up onto the roof any easier, or any less of a bad idea. And it really was a very bad idea, he reflected, especially with both Hilary and the old man away from the farm.

Still, he'd been meaning to do it for a while, and he'd woken up feeling oddly energised and keen to get things done. Today was going to be one of the good days. He was certainly due one.

Climbing up onto the farmhouse was certainly not the smartest thing he could be doing, but it wasn't the stupidest thing he'd done in the last couple of years either. Not by a long shot. It certainly beat sitting by himself in the attic all day, flitting aimlessly around the extranet or endlessly watching and rewatching footage of star ships in action.

And the view _was_ pretty spectacular.

He'd just about recovered his breath when he realised he wasn't alone after all.

A figure was walking up to front of the house, following the edge of the dirt track that served as the only road towards the spaceport. The new arrival was a middle-aged man Jeff had never seen before, balding and bare-faced but for a neatly trimmed beard. No colony markings, which meant … maybe nothing. Maybe a lot

Strangers out here could be trouble, Jeff knew. Out here, on the outskirts of Tiptree, law enforcement was often more a matter of theory than practice; an unexpected visitor turning up at your doorstep could be a harbinger of attempted robbery or worse. But the man didn't seem to be looking for trouble. His body language was relaxed, his pace unhurried, although the neatly pressed shirt and suit he wore seemed more than a little out of place in the surroundings.

As Jeff watched, the man made his way up to the front door and half-turned as if to look back along the way he'd travelled. Given how he was dressed, Jeff guessed he'd come straight from the spaceport. _Long way to walk just to find an empty farm though_. The man's two shadows furled out in front of him as he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

"Looking for my Dad?" Jeff called out to him. "Afraid he won't be back for a few hours."

If the visitor was startled, he didn't show it. He raised his head and made eye contact, nodding slightly as he did so.

"It's actually you I was looking for, Jeffrey." the man said.

That seemed difficult to believe. Jeff had been on Tiptree for months and still knew barely anybody on the planet. He'd not been off his Dad's farm in weeks - hell, he'd not been out of his room on more days than he had been. Why would anybody be looking for him?

"Word around here is that you're one hell of a pilot," the man continued. "I was hoping to offer you a job."

 _A job?_ he thought. _As a pilot?_ It seemed too good to be true. And yet if there was even a chance this wasn't some sort of con ...

"Hang on a minute," he called down. "I'm coming down but I might take a while."

Jeff's mind raced as he hurried as best he could to the ladder that led down to the second floor of the house. Under his own power, he knew, there was almost no way he'd have been able to climb it - up or down - without seriously risking an injury. But one of the less frequently talked about benefits of humanity's rediscovery of the Prothean mass effect technology was that he didn't have to climb under his own power: mass effect generators running along the length of the ladder effectively reduced the weight of anybody climbing up or down it; making it possible for him to lift or lower himself easily with just his arms.

 _Well, more easily than I could otherwise_ , he reflected. Awkwardly shuffling down the ladder still took a few minutes; time enough for him to speculate futilely as to where the visitor might have learned his name or of his interest in being a pilot.

He'd flown the farm's cargo transport up to the spaceport and back a few times, sure. Again, not something his dad really encouraged, and not something that was likely to impress anybody. But that was really it, ever since he'd first moved to the Citadel. He supposed his name might still be sitting in a Hierarchy file somewhere, but - his mind flashed back to the man's lack of face markings - somehow he didn't think this was how the Hierarchy or the Systems Alliance would go about offering him a job.

Once he was down in the house itself, getting down the stairs and opening the front door was almost easy. Almost.

He made sure to grab a stick as he headed out of the door - not just as a walking aid, but as a sop to the nagging doubt in the back of his head that warned that this could all prove to be a big mistake.

"Well, Jeff?" the older man asked, once Jeff had had a few minutes to get his breath back. "I take it that you're interested."

Jeff nodded, hoping that he didn't look as desperate for this to be real as he was starting to realise that he was.

"How did you know I was a pilot?" he asked, _Are you a pilot_ , the doubting voice in his head asked. _You_ want _to be a pilot, but you want a lot of things._

"We actually spoke a few months ago," the man said. "Not in person, of course - but we exchanged a few messages on the extranet. You were interested in Terra Firma…"

 _Oh, right_.

Since coming to Tiptree he'd been spending more and more time trying to track down other people who had lost relatives or lost ones during the Terra Firma project. He wasn't sure he could explain why; wasn't sure he could put into words just what it was he was looking for. Closure, maybe: the feeling that there were other people out there who had been through the same things that he had.

It was proving harder to do than he'd expected at first. Lots of people involved simply didn't want to talk about it, which he knew was more than understandable. And beyond that, there were subtle and not-so-subtle signs that this was something that those in power didn't want people discussing too hard. The Systems Alliance clearly viewed the whole thing as an embarrassment; a self-inflicted public relations disaster that had only served to weaken their bargaining position with the Council races. And the actual individuals who had sponsored the construction efforts were ever less keen to remind the galaxy of their involvement.

He'd managed to identify some of the corporations involved - Delta Pavonis, Lawson Holdings, Second Star Living - but each had turned out to be a dead-end; founders dead or vanished or the whole company having ceased trading weeks after the failure of the Terra Firma movement.

His search had taken him across the extranet; trawling through long-abandoned personal pages, strange conspiracy sites and half-hidden, semi-private forums devoted to arcane discussions and debunkings of rumours and speculation about the fate of the three Terra Firma ships. But he'd never thought that anything he'd dug up would have come here to find him.

"You posted a few times on Future Content," the man said, naming a relatively obscure site that Jeff could barely remember browsing. "I have an account there myself, as it happens. We traded messages for a few days. You mentioned you were trained to be a pilot; what your parents did and where you used to work."

Jeff supposed he had done, at that. But he'd been careful not to give his name, or mention anything about where he lived or talk about anything uniquely identifiable like his condition or his actual qualifications.

 _All that paranoia rubs off you after a while, I guess_ , he thought. Although obviously he'd not been paranoid enough.

"I did some digging," the man said. "I was interested; especially when I found out you'd tried signing up for the turian forces a few years ago. Before they open their doors to non-biotics."

He raised an eyebrow, curiously.

"Uh, yeah," Jeff said, awkwardly. "Not something either of my parents would have approved of, if they'd known. But they never …" he trailed off. They'd never found out, he'd been going to say. But of course his mom never would find out. And these days, he doubted his dad would care much either way.

"The Hierarchy is recruiting non-biotics now," the man pointed out. "You ever think of applying again?"

Jeff had a sudden vivid memory of the look on the turian recruiting officer's face, the rasp in his voice as he'd casually crushed Jeff's hopes. He shook his head firmly.

"I'm not a kid anymore," he said. "I know better than to trust in the good wishes of friendly aliens."

"Well said," the visitor replied. "As it happens, I have some friends in the market for somebody with your sort of skills. Human friends. I think you understand what I mean."

He supposed that he did, at that.

His efforts to track down other people who had lost relatives to the Terra Firma project had taken him into some odd corners of the extranet. Grey areas, sites hosted on servers out in the depths of the Terminus Systems, where the laws of the Council held no force. Places where you could complain about how the Hierarchy was increasingly involving itself in internal human politics without the fear that somebody was going to denounce you as a terrorist or a batarian sympathiser.

One name going around on the darker places of the extranet these days was _Cerberus_. A creature out of mythology: a three headed monster that lurked in the underworld and defended its home from outside invasion. A human group that was ready to fight back.

"Your … uh, friends, …" he said. "They couldn't just have sent me an extranet message?"

"My friends are the traditional sort, in some ways," the man said. "Not exactly won over by all this new technology. Meeting face-to-face like this, without any third parties snooping around or listening in - well, it has its advantages."

He half turned back towards the sunset, shielding his eyes against the glare. "You don't get views like this sitting at an extranet terminal, either," he said.

They were both silent then, for a few minutes, staring out across the fields as the last light of the suns washed over the crops.

"You can call me Crispin, by the way," the visitor said, breaking the silence. "Crispin Day."

He paused, just for a fraction of a second, as if waiting for a reaction. Jeff wasn't sure how he was supposed to respond: the name didn't mean anything to him. Luckily the man didn't seem to bothered by Jeff's continuing silence.

"Well, Jeff," he said. "Are you interested?"

Jeff took a deep breath. If this was what he thought it was, it was big. Probably the biggest thing that had happened to him since … well, since the events he spent the last four years trying to move on from, of course.

He remembered how he'd felt in the weeks after the _Espero_ vanished. How angry he'd felt; how helpless. In truth he'd felt that way for most of the last three years: moving from one low-paying dead-end job to another; from Arcturus to the Citadel to Tiptree. Making a series of embarrassing and costly mistakes along the way. But maybe now things would be different.

Maybe this was another decision he'd come to regret. Somehow he didn't think so.

"Hell yeah," he said, reaching out to take the man's hand. "Sign me up."

* * *

| One Year Ago | 2179 CE, old Earth style | Horizon |

Horizon was supposed to be a sign of what the future held in store for the remnants of humanity in the Attican Traverse. With help from the turian Hierarchy, the Systems Alliance had successfully established a colony in the Shadow Sea that was beginning to form the nucleus of a growing resurgence of scientific understanding and technological development. Horizon was already the financial capital of the Alliance worlds and one day - perhaps sooner rather than later - the planet could surpass even Arturus Station in political importance.

That was the propaganda line, anyway,

The way Jeff say it, Horizon was systematic of everything that had been going wrong for the past twenty years. A small number of humans squandering resources in the pursuit of the Hierarchy's latest pet projects - and getting obscenely rich in the process, no doubt - while looking down on or ignoring the rest of their species. A world where bankers and lawyers called the shots, and nothing was worth doing unless it made somebody or something a fortune.

He'd never visited before, but already the place was making his skin crawl. He wouldn't be in this bar - wouldn't even be on this planet - if he hadn't got important work to do.

He looked around the room again, impatiently. At this hour, this close to the spaceport, the clientele were a roughly even mixture of tourists and locals. Almost entirely human, though. At least that was something.

The screen at the far end of the bar was showing a live feed of the day's big news. Luckily the volume was down low - Jeff could only make out the occasional few sentences, and that only when there was a lull in the background conversation. He'd heard that the President was supposed to a popular man in this part of the galaxy; he didn't think he'd have guessed that from the lack of reaction to his decision to end his term early.

". _... President Williams made the shock announcement last night,_ " the announcer continued, " _In a televised address broadcast live across Alliance space. The Systems Parliament is expected-_ "

Jeff tuned the newsreader's voice out as best he could. He was sitting with his back to the screen for a reason. Learning the news second- or third-hand through the extranet was depressing enough to begin with - listening to the predictable propaganda lines being read out by the official Hierarchy-approved sources was much worse.

He wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that Williams was resigning. No surprise at all that most of the news reports blamed it on Cerberus though. Or that they'd use the excuse to drag up all the old ridiculous rumours about links between Cerberus and the batarians. _As if the only reason anybody might object to being bossed about by the birds was wanting to be ruled over by a different_ type _of alien_. _._

He'd been working with Cerberus for a while now, and he'd never seen anything to suggest any sort of link with batarians. His grandparents - his dad's parents - had been living alone on Tiptree when the four eyed aliens first invaded. His grandfather had died fighting them; his grandmother had passed away not long afterwards. And Cerberus was supposed to be working with them? The mere idea was ridiculous. Surely anybody could see that?

He realised he'd been drumming his fingers against the table for some time. Forced himself to stop. _Too late to be nervous now_ , he told himself. He wasn't sure it helped.

" _In entertainment news, Francis Kitt has announced plans to..._ "

Jeff shook his head, trying to will himself calm.

The official Systems Alliance line was that Cerberus's days were numbered; that the web was tightening around the Illusive Man, and that within months he'd be sitting in solitary confinement in a Hierarchy jail. That had been the official line for at least three years though, so he doubted anybody believed it anymore. Not even on Horizon.

Privately Jeff had started to wonder whether the 'Illusive Man' had ever even existed. Wasn't that the simplest explanation as for why none of the security forces had ever been able to find him?

"Excuse me?""

Startled by the unexpected voice, Jeff's inner monologue fell silent. He didn't recognise the young woman who'd approached him; and he was sure he would have remembered her if they'd met before.

She had long dark hair, striking eyes and the sort of combination of pale skin and symmetrical features that hinted at inherited wealth, good luck, good genes or - _most likely_ \- all three. A symmetry that was broken only by the three vertical green stripes running down the left side of her face. A local, then.

"This seat taken?" she asked casually, accent confirming the story told by her markings.

Jeff shifted uncomfortably, not sure how to respond. He was supposed to be meeting his latest handler here, whoever he was. All he had to go on was a code name, and a special phrase that his contact would use to introduce themselves. Mr Day - the man who had recruited him on Tiptree two years ago, and had been acting as his handler ever since - had sprung the news on him in person just a few weeks ago.

"Uh, sure," he managed, flushing slightly when his brain picked up on what her actual question had been. "I mean, no, it's not taken. Go ahead."

His new boss could always find his own damn chair, he decided. Served him right for being so damn late.

With a nod, the woman pushed back the chair and slid into it, eyes focusing now on the view screen behind him.

 _Shit_. He'd assumed she'd take the chair and move it to join friends at some other table; the gang of quants sitting over by the bar, maybe, or the gaggle of young medical students working their courage up in front of the karaoke stage. He hadn't realised she was going to sit here - his contact would be looking for somebody sitting alone, with a map of Horizon's subway network spread out on the table just the way he'd left it. What was he supposed to do now?

As he scanned the room for another empty table, he thought he saw a strange expression pass over the young woman's face - like she'd just seen somebody she recognised but hadn't expected to see here. But when he turned to look for whoever had prompted that, all he could see was the view-screen, looping back onto the entertainment news.

When he turned around the young woman was looking at him, eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"First time on Horizon?" she asked, glancing at the map

"Uh, yeah." he said. "I've only ... I mean, I just got off the ship a few hours ago."

 _Smooth, Jeff_ , he thought. _Very smooth._

"You should visit the city zoo if you get the chance," she said conversationally, "My sister says that they've got a pair of actual lions. Cloned, of course, but still 100% lion DNA."

 _Oh, shit._ That was the signal he was supposed to have been watching out for. Why had he assumed-

"I, uh." He cleared his throat, mouth suddenly dry. What was the response phrase, anyway?

He actually knew a little bit about the lions - it was something he'd been reading about on the journey from Tiptree; nothing to do but browse the public extranet while the ship made the short journey to Tiptree's nearest mass relay. .

The two lions were a gift to the Systems Alliance from the volus, grown in a tank in a specially designed lab on Irune before being shipped to Horizon two years ago. None of the Earth's dwindling population of wild lions had made it off-planet before the Charon relay went dark, but some enterprising colonists had uploaded a scan of their genome to a data cube before leaving Sol, and that data had in turn made its way on to the galactic extranet.

The two lions were infertile, of course; the volus hadn't wanted to risk releasing a potential plague of wild predators onto the surface of an allied planet. And the human scientists of the Systems Alliance didn't yet have the technology or the knowledge they needed to breed more clones of their own. So the lions of Horizon, perhaps the very last of their species alive in the galaxy, were utterly dependent on the generosity of the Hierarchy and its allies if they were to avoid total extinction. _Nobody ever accused a volus diplomat of being subtle, I guess_.

The woman was still looking at him, still waiting for a response.

He was suddenly, oppressively aware of the security cameras he'd spotted earlier. It was difficult to shake off the irrational sense that - any minute now - Hierarchy security forces were going to burst in an arrest them on the spot. Ever since the recent war with the batarians, the turian security forces had seemed ever-present. Even on Tiptree he'd started to feel worried. And here ...

 _Come on, Jeff,_ he rebuked himself silently. _If anybody was going to arrest you for not being able to talk to a pretty woman without stammering, you'd never have made it off Arcturus Station._

"I'm afraid I've never really been much of a cat person" he managed. He was pretty sure that was the counter-sign.

The woman relaxed, almost imperceptibly; Jeff didn't think he'd have spotted it if he hadn't been quite so on edge himself. Not that either of them had said - or would say - anything even potentially incriminating here, of course. This meeting was just a way of making first contact, giving them a chance to put a face to a name. And if they could do so here, as close as they were likely to get to the centre of the Hierarchy's power … well, the satisfaction of that was worth a little tension.

"Melinoë," she introduced herself; the pronunciation a little different than he'd guessed from seeing the word written down before. It wasn't her real name, of course - nobody involved Cerberus would use their real name when talking to another cell member - but it was the only name he'd be getting.

In Jeff's admittedly limited experience, Cerberus pseudonyms tended to come in one of two types: blandly anonymous aliases, like the 'Crispin Day' he'd met two years earlier on Tiptree, and references to mythological figures from Old Earth. He guessed his new boss's alias was an example of the latter, though as usual it went a bit over his head.

Jeff's chosen name didn't fall into either category. It wasn't bland, and it wouldn't mean anything to an expert in old human histories. It meant something to him though.

After all these years, he could still remember the turian recruiting agent's mocking reaction. _Is this some kind of joke?_

"Call me Joker," he said.

* * *

| Days Earlier | 2180 CE, old Earth style | Eden Prime |

The wind at the bottom of the cliffs was fiercer than he'd have liked; fiercer than it had been when they first practiced this. It was nothing he couldn't handle though; nothing that the ship couldn't deal with. He had the easy job, today: it was Mel who was facing all the risks.

Not that he doubted she'd be equal to the challenge. Over the missions they'd worked on since Horizon he'd been struck by just how focused the Cerberus agent was - how singularly dedicated to achieving the

They'd all followed the same pattern, those early missions. He'd be home on Tiptree, or working in the commercial pilot training school that Day had set up for him as a cover, when the request would come in. He'd take a few days off, flying out to some star system or other to help Mel infiltrate or exfiltrate somewhere or other, piloting ships through planetary defences people thought were impregnable, or moving at speeds that people didn't believe were possible.

Hilary, he knew, was convinced he was in some sort of secret relationship - something she'd teased him about once or twice in the early months. The old man was probably worried he was involved in low-level smuggling of some sort or another. Neither of them could know the truth.

The last mission - almost two months ago now, he thought - had been a little out of the ordinary, a little more unnerving than most. He'd ended up flying out on a series of commercial flights, out into some backwater system he'd never visited before. Then he'd taken charge of a small, two-person shuttle and flown out into the dark side of an unremarkable icy moon, where Mel had been been waiting him for on board an otherwise deserted ship. A - from all the signs he could see - very recently deserted ship.

"Pirates," she'd said, preempting his question, "Batarian slavers." Her lips had curled into a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes. "They won't be requiring it anymore."

He'd tried to keep his eyes focused on hers, trying not to think about the abandoned crew quarters they'd been walking through or the emergency air supplies she'd been sitting patiently by when he'd first boarded. Ignoring the signs of vacuum damage scarring the support beams around the airlocks, trying not to let his imagination fill in the gaps.

There was no sign of the Horizon-colony markings on her face, he'd noticed absently. Unlike it had been on the day their first met, her face was smooth and unmarked. Her accent had changed too, a hard-to-place cultured drawl that he thought hinted at an expensive private education. Neither of them had ever spoken about their families - that would have gone against protocol, after all - but he'd picked up the idea that she had a complicated relationship with hers. _Some Horizoners who've been getting rich out of the whole Protectorate racket?_

It was pointless to speculate, but more fun than thinking about whoever had last sat in the seat he was occupying now; clutching their throats as the air ran out and … he'd shaken his head, rebuking himself.

 _They were slavers, Jeff,_ he'd told himself. _You think they didn't have it coming?_

They'd made the descent to the drop point in almost perfect silence; slipping between the planet's network of security drones with room to spare. Mel had just nodded to him when they were done, one professional to another. He hadn't asked what Cerberus wanted to keep the ship for. Sometimes all that focus could be more than a little unsettling.

He forced his thoughts back to the present, eyes focusing on the shuttle's flashing displays.

Whoever was in charge of that end of the business had really outdone themselves this time. This ship was incredible. Only a shuttle, sure, but more advanced and better engineered than almost anything else he'd flown for real before. He wondered idly where in the galaxy Cerberus had gotten hold of it. All he knew was that somebody, somehow, had arranged for it to be waiting for them on a private spaceport on the far side of the planet.

He'd flown the ship out of the spaceport himself a few hours ago: flying as low as possible to avoid being picked up by any official observation channel. Not that there was much chance of that: Eden Prime's local government was bitterly opposed to any hint of Hierarchy interference in their local politics. But Mel had insisted, so that was that.

Now the Cerberus agent was up in the caves, facing down a turian Spectre and his biotic human allies. If it was anybody else, he'd be worried. But with Mel - well, he almost felt sorry for the Spectre.

⟨⟨ _-no matter how hard you try, you'll never be-_ _⟩⟩_ Joker kept one ear on the comms channel, listening to the Cerberus agent as she faced down

One of the console screens in front of him lit up, green light washing over his face. Activity in the base, below both Mel and the human soldier. Somebody else had triggered the device. That was all part of the plan.

He wasn't the only one to get the signal.

⟨⟨ _-go check on your boss, Shepard._ _⟩⟩_ The emergency extraction light flashed red, as Melinoë's calm voice continued to crackle over the speaker. That was the signal. _⟨⟨_ _You and I can pick this up later._ _⟩⟩_

 _Come on girl,_ he addressed the ship. _Time to show what you can do._ Jeff's hands danced across the controls, punching out commands, and the ship ascended up the mountainside, as smoothly and effortlessly as if they were still in deep space.

He didn't even notice when Mel jumped; The ship didn't rock when she caught on to the hatch; if it wasn't for the external sensors he wouldn't have noticed a thing. A few seconds later the screen flashed up an alert noting the shuttle's doors had been opened.

Mel - _Melino_ ë _,_ he reminded himself; he wasn't reckless enough to refer to her by a diminuitive except in the privacy of his own head - was back on board.

A few minutes later the cockpit door dilated and Melinoë walked inside, a thoughtful look on her face.

"So much for the famous Command Shepard," she said lightly, sliding into the co-pilot's seat next to him.

"Wait, that was _Shepard_?" he said, startled. He'd not been told anything more about this mission than he'd needed to know. A Cerberus team on Eden Prime had gone dark, enemy activity was suspected, and Melinoë would be going in to investigate. But he'd heard of the Butcher. Who hadn't?

"Is she the reason our team out here went missing?" he asked. He'd seen the videos smuggled out of Torfan; he knew what the biotic auxiliaries that worked for the Hierarchy were capable of. If anybody could have taken out the Cerberus monitoring team here on Eden Prime, surely...

… but Melinoë was already shaking her head. "Not according to our latest intelligence - the Spectre brought her along with him, and he only made planetfall after we arrived."

"We trust that intel?" he asked. Strictly speaking, he didn't need to know - sometimes he could press for more, but at other times Mel would be all icy professionalism.

But today she was in an expansive mood.

"Cerberus is interested in the Commander." she said nonchalantly. "We've been keeping track of her for some time. We've actually tried sounding her out a few times now. We do something similar for a lot of people like her; people who could be useful if they could understand what's at stake. But she's not ready. Not yet. So we just have one of our agents keep a close eye on her; to make sure she's not causing the wrong sort of trouble "

She took a seat next to Jeff, in front of the still active console broadcasting diagnostics from the now abandoned science lab.

"In any case," she said, glancing over the readouts. "It looks like the turian took the bait, just as the Illusive Man planned. I'd better send word. Can you find a comm buoy - patch us into the network?""

Jeff nodded, hoping his expression remained calm.

_The Illusive Man actually exists?_

After all these years, it felt bizarre to have it confirmed so casually. .Assuming that wasn't just more misinformation of course. But he didn't think that it was. Maybe he was kidding himself, but this felt like a deliberate initiation into a deeper level of the organisation than he'd been invited to see before. An extension of trust. Maybe a sign that he'd start to see more of what was really going on.

 _You can pat yourself on the back later,_ he reminded himself. _Right now you've got a job to do_.

They'd need to get out of Eden Prime's orbit, out of the whole system, before they could risk sending a signal. Luckily the shuttle was more than capable of that.

They'd left atmosphere a few minutes ago - pushing up through the ionosphere with barely any effort - and were right on course for Horizon's local mass relay. Jeff risked a glance at the woman next to him, wondering if she was going to let anything more slip today, but she was silently engrossed on the screen in front of her. He knew better than to try to push her.

Jeff cleared his throat when the warning light flashed up in front of him. It was time for the final approach. After all this time, this part still felt special.

"Hitting the relay in 5, 4, 3, 2, …"


	17. Scars 1

⟨⟨ _Hey, Sol. Long time no see._

_Something happened a few days ago which made me think I should ..._ _⟩⟩_

Garrus shook his head, staring unhappily at the half-finished message on the inner screen of his visor. This draft wasn't going any better than the others. Why was it so hard to put things into words? He'd expected to be finished with this hours ago, and yet the more effort he put in the worse the draft started to sound.

⟨⟨ _I'm sorry that … ⟩⟩_

Maybe he should be taking a break.

They'd spent almost three days on board Shiala's ship since leaving Omega. Three days recuperating and trying to work out their next steps. If pressed, he'd have to admit that recuperating was taking up rather more time than trying to work anything out. _If lying awake at night feeling sorry for yourself counts as recuperating, anyway_.

Time to take stock, then. What were the facts?

On the face of it, the mission to Omega had been a clear failure. The expert they'd been sent to find had been murdered, and he and Shepard had both only narrowly survived the Blood Pack's kidnapping attempt. Then again, meeting up with Shiala and her squad had been a definite positive - if the Matriarch that Shiala worked for couldn't help Shepard, then he doubted whether Shol's supposed expert would have been able to either.

And on the third talon, there was the news that Kumun Shol, the billionaire who'd sent them to Omega in the first place, wasn't on Klencory anymore. Not that he'd actually said that he was, thought Garrus, thinking back over their previous short conversations. But if he wasn't, then where in the galaxy was he? For that matter, how had the volus been able to pull enough strings to get Shepard detached from her unit? A direct intervention in Hierarchy military affairs wasn't the sort of thing Shol should have been able to pull off by himself. It was … well, it was the sort of thing that Spectres did, wasn't it? Was Nihlus more involved in this than he'd let Garrus know?

Then there was the salarian they'd picked up. Garrus still wasn't sure what to make of him.

The asari vessel they were on wasn't large, and it hadn't taken much time for him to wander all the way across it.

"Ah, Vakarian. Glad you stopped by. Wanted to discuss something with you. A delicate matter."

He hadn't meant to visit the salarian; hadn't really been conscious of exactly where his feet were taking him.

"Have been re-analysing the Commander's scans," the salarian said. "Beta wave patterns unusual, worryingly so. Fascinating, really, but … ah, must admit that prognosis not good. And evidence suggests beta wave deterioration likely to be paralleled by concomitant physiological decline."

"She's getting worse?" he said. His voice sounded more plaintive than he'd hoped. _I thought she was getting better_ , he thought numbly.

The doctor nodded impatiently.

"Have examined documented cases of exposure to Prothean and suspected pre-Prothean technology. Not my field, but was able to pull some sources together."

The salarian passed him a data pad, which Garrus accepted without looking at it.

"More cases of such exposures on record in recent years than would have guessed. Victims " - Garrus wished he'd chosen a different word than that one - "are usually treasure hunters, amateur explorers or simply unlucky passers-by. All show remarkably similar responses, though proximate cause not always clearly defined.

"Common initial side-effects include insomnia, paranoia, auditory and visual hallucinations-"

 _Well, that doesn't sound good_.

"Hallucinations?" he said. "Like the visions?"

Mordin shook his head. "Spoke with Shiala, asari captain. Mind meld confirms that warning message was present in beacon. Not subsequent hallucination, though provenance and authenticity of message still open to question…"

The salarian shook his head again.

"No, sources suggest initial symptoms are more subtle. Whispers on the edge of hearing, familiar faces glimpsed in strange crowds, fragments of music when others hear only silence. Surviving accounts are quite evocative."

"Open to question?" he asked, curiously. "You think this warning might be some sort of hoax?"

"Hoax?" the salarian shrugged. "Perhaps. Or simply out of date. Protheans have been dead for millennia. Not clear why any warning they might have left should still be relevant. Message likely not meant for us, in any case.

"Curious, all the same." Mordin conceded. "Hope you don't mind if I stick around. Would like to see what happens next. But, ah. Would suggest keeping an eye on the Commander. Later stage symptoms somewhat serious."

Garrus left the salarian, pad still in hand, and headed back to his own makeshift quarters. Rather than read Mordin's notes, he found himself staring at the unfinished message to his sister again. Staring past it, really; eyes not taking any of it in.

He remembered one summer, years ago - he must have been five or six years old. Long enough that he couldn't remember much more than a few isolated moments. Piecing things together, it must have been the summer they left Cipritine to go and stay in the countryside with one of his mother's relatives. When he was still that young, his father had sometimes been able to get away from work during the holiday season. However he'd managed it, the whole family had been together that summer.

One morning Solana had woken him up early, before dawn, and taken him out to the garden to show off her latest discovery. They'd crept out of the house, as quietly as they could, careful not to wake their parents. In the pre-dawn light, with Menae and Nanus both still visible as dim smudges on the horizon, the gardens were eerily beautiful. Nothing like the crowded streets and tunnels and urban sprawl of Cipritine.

After a short trek over the grass, past a small glade of trees and a carefully tended rock garden, they'd reached the discovery Sol had been so keen to demonstrate.

A pair of scorpion wasps, steel wings flickering as the sky grew gradually brighter around them, guarding a thorny bush, leaves curled up and half-dead in the waning darkness. There was something wrong with some of the leaves, he'd seen: Something … alive? He'd looked at his sister, puzzled. Was the plant sick?

"The wasps laid their eggs there last night," she'd whispered solemnly, eyes never moving away from the strange shapes undulating beneath the silvery leaves . "They're having a family."

 _Oh_. Suddenly the shapes had seemed very fragile. Sol had taken one of his small hands in hers and - as the sun rose over the gardens - they'd watched together as the plant's leaves began to open up and the eggs inside began to hatch.

That had been a good day, he thought. Back then he'd thought his sister was the smartest turian in the galaxy. If only he-

It was too late for regrets.

He'd had three days to finishing writing this message. Three entire days with nothing else to distract him. _Spirits, Garrus, you've had years._ But now they were docking at the Citadel again - he'd wasted all that time. With a sigh and a curl of his smallest talon Garrus dismissed the mail client, message unfinished just like it always was.

_[[ You have unsent messages that have not yet been uploaded to the extranet.]]_

He was getting sick of the program telling him that.

_[[ Do you want to save them? Y / N ]]_

His hand snapped shut, overriding the prompt.

_[[ Messages deleted. ]]_

* * *

⟨⟨ _Hey, sis. Sorry that I've not been in touch. I wanted... ⟩⟩_

What did he want, anyway?

The Citadel was always changing, yet always on some fundamental level stayed the same. Every time he visited he felt like a stranger; as though all the landmarks that should have been familiar from previous visits had been moved about and re-ordered. Quite possibly they had, of course: the Citadel's Keepers were notorious for doing just that, and it didn't seem to be possible to stop them. But there was more to it than that, he thought. Something fundamentally inconstant and fluid about the station itself.

His father had told him many stories about life on the Citadel. Stories which made the place seem dangerous, or exciting, or mysterious. But nothing about it that made it seem like home. Not like Palaven. Maybe that was why his father had never fought harder to bring the family out here; beyond their mother's job at the University.

The Citadel hadn't been built for turians, or for salarians or asari either. The Council species occupied it, but they didn't truly own it. It was easy to take it for granted, but there was something bizarre about living in an artificial world whose founders had vanished millennia ago and which ran on rules nobody alive even pretended to understand. Something about the place just made his plates itch.

Maybe it was different for the people who actually lived here. But he didn't think so.

The asari embassy was located in one of the nicer areas of the Presidium, of course. _Some things don't change_. He was heading up the stairs with Shepard and Shiala when the message came through on his visor. C-Sec. He wasn't expecting anything from them; didn't recognise the name of the sender.

⟨⟨ _Apologies, Spectre Vakarian, but we have a situation … can you come down to C-Sec Academy when you get the chance? ⟩⟩_

"Ah," he said. "Sorry Commander, I'm afraid something's come up."

With a quick promise that he'd be back soon, he turned and headed back down the steps. Shiala would be able to escort Shepard the rest of the way, after all. The asari had insisted that the Matriarch would want to speak to him as well, but he couldn't imagine it was urgent. He still hadn't quite figured out what the Matriarch was to the commando: employer, surrogate parent or spiritual instructor? Maybe a mixture of all three.

The quickest way to the C-Sec Academy from the Presidium level was by elevator. At least that much had stayed the same since his last visit. _When the keepers start messing with the elevator shafts,_ he thought _, that's when will really be in trouble_.

He paced uncomfortably in the silence of the elevator, wishing it would move faster or at least that he had somebody to talk to. Being alone and cooped up like this, it was all to easy to start remembering things that he'd rather not think about. Garm smirking down at him as he lay bleeding out on the floor; Shepard falling silently backwards through the shattering window.

Or, before that … he'd been about eight years old, he thought. Picked up by his mother one day after school, and taken away - not back to the house as he'd expected, but instead out to a strange complex of buildings he'd never seen before. _Cipritine District Hospital_ , he'd read on a sign they hurried past. Sat in the back-seat of an unfamiliar aircar while his mother and father had a long, heated but whispered conversation on the vid-phone.

Then sat again, waiting in a room full of strangers while his mother talked to other strangers in white clothing.

"Mom," he'd asked nervously when his mother came back to sit with him, "Did Sol do something … bad?"

"Bad?" his mother seemed surprised by the question, and Garrus wondered if he'd missed something important she'd tried to explain. "No, dear. Your sister did something very brave."

"Father seemed-", he'd paused. "Really angry." Father had been at work, on the Citadel, but was coming back to Palaven to meet them now. Garrus hadn't been able to make out much more of that part of his parents' conversation.

"He wasn't angry," his mother corrected him, carefully. "He was worried. Solana could have been badly hurt. We were both worried she had been."

"Then can Sol come home soon?"

"That depends on what the doctors say, Garrus." she'd said. Her voice was bright but her subharmonics were strange - not like anything he'd ever heard before. "Let's hope so."

She'd fallen quiet then, and Garrus had gone back to playing with the extranet reader he'd borrowed from a receptionist.

He'd spotted a picture of Sol on the local news site - one of the ones he knew she didn't like, taken last year when her clawball team finished as runners-up in some competition or other - and a picture of the local metro station, one of the old deep ones that doubled as an air-raid shelter. He had tried to follow the story as best he could, puzzling quietly over unfamiliar words and phrases like _funicular_ and _breaking load_ and _drainage trench_ and _carapace fractures_..

He'd decided it wasn't a good idea to ask his mom about them yet. She'd only take the reader off him again.

Later, when Father had arrived and all the family were gathered around Sol's hospital bed, it was his mom who seemed the angriest. Father just sat there, quietly, in the background. That was more frightening than if he had been angry. Garrus had never seen him so quiet before.

"What were you thinking, Solana?" she asked, not for the first time. "They say you jumped down onto the tracks, you-"

His sister had seemed half asleep, to his eyes - it was only later that he'd understood she was still feeling the effects of a very large dose of painkillers.

"I read ...," she'd answered, slowly, then seemed to lose her train of thought. "Is the kid okay?"

Her eyes had passed over Garrus and he'd felt a moment of pre-emptive outrage. _I'm not a kid,_ he'd thought, furiously. _I'm almost ten._ She wasn't looking at him though. Some other kid? He remembered wishing he'd asked his mother to explain the news story after all.

"He's fine, Sol," their father had said quietly. "The family wanted you to know. I think they were hoping you'd come and see him later, when you're feeling up to it."

"But Sol," his mother had interjected, not content to stay quiet any longer. "You could have-"

She'd broken off, looking upset. Solana had looked - concerned, he'd thought, but not like she thought she was in trouble.

"It was the right thing to do," she'd said, looking their father in the eyes and not blinking. "Somebody had to do it."

The elevator door finally slid open, and Garrus shook his head. He hadn't thought about those days for years.

C-Sec Headquarters hadn't changed much since his last visit. That had been … two years ago, maybe? Certainly before he'd been formally made a Spectre. He had a vague memory of meeting Nilhus here, a long time ago.

This was the office he was looking for; the door standing open. Nobody had challenged him on his way in, he realised. Perhaps they were expecting him. _Or maybe you spent too long on that asari ship and you've forgotten what it's like to be just another turian in the crowd_.

He glanced inside the office; where a single middle aged man sat typing at a desk.

"Chellick?" he asked.

"Ah, Vakarian," the officer at the desk said. "Thank you for responding so quickly."

He wasn't surprised to see that the detective who'd requested his presence was a fellow turian. Most of C-Sec were, after all - he'd seen a couple of asari on his way in, and he knew there were at least a handful of batarians working for C-Sec as well, but those were very much in the minority.

"You know, I used to serve under Castis Vakarian, back in the day." the detective volunteered. "I'm sure he'd be …"

The detective trailed off, platitude unfinished; if Chellick really had served under his father, then they both knew that Castis Vakarian wouldn't have approved of Garrus having joined the Spectres.

"Is there anything I can help you with, Detective Chellick?" Garrus asked carefully. He really wasn't in the mood to talk about somebody else's idea of the good old times.

"I hope so, sir," said the C-Sec officer, finishing whatever he'd been working on at his desk and standing up.

"We brought in a human a couple of nights ago," Chellick said. _Now we're getting to the point_. "Picked a fight with a couple of krogan down in Archos."

"And he's still in one piece?" Garrus was impressed. Picking fights with krogan tended to be the sort of mistake that people only got to make once.

"One piece?" The officer shook his head. "Vakarian, it took four of my men to pull her off the krogan that was still standing upright. If we hadn't taken her amp off of her, … well,

Garrus mentally reviewed the list of human biotics he knew who could go toe to toe with multiple krogan. It wasn't a very long list. For that matter, neither was the list of human biotics he knew, period.

"If it was up to me, we'd leave her in lock-up until somebody more senior decided if we were going to charge her for all the damage she caused. Or if it would be simpler to just kick her off the station for causing a public nuisance. But the thing is, she mentioned you by name."

The list he'd been compiling in his head was really very short. Oh, _this is not good_.

"Okay, Officer," said Garrus. "Let's go down and see her."

_[[ You have unsent messages … ]]_

Garrus snapped his hand shut before the message had even finished scrolling across his vision.

_[[ Messages deleted. ]]_

* * *

⟨⟨ _Solana, I know it's been a difficult few years, but ... ⟩⟩_

It felt strange to be here, walking through the halls of C-Sec Academy. In another life, another galaxy, he might have ended up working here. Somehow he didn't think that that would have worked out very well.

Chellick waited outside the cell block while Garrus went inside.

" '... and his Lordship says to me: "That's Chapaev! Shoot Ivan, shoot!"' "

He didn't recognise either of the names. But he wasn't surprised to find that he recognised the voice. The speaker was facing the other way when he arrived, and had clearly been expecting more of a reaction. She stared levelly at the guard outside her cell for a few seconds, then cleared her throat.

"You see" she explained, "It's funny because …."

The guard came to attention when she spotted Garrus lurking in the hallway outside; after a brief pause the human turned around as well, eyes . _Jennifer Nicollier_ , he reminded himself. _The biotic from Eden Prime_.

"Oh," she said flatly. "It's you."

"Hello, Nicollier," he said. Her only answer was to slump back against the wall of her cell, eyes shut.

He had a sudden memory of another conversation, years ago, on-

 _No_.

He wasn't going to think about that now.

"I hear you've been making friends," he tried. She didn't respond. He thought briefly about just walking out of the cell. Surely he had better things to do with his time than this?

"I suppose you had a good reason for fighting krogan in the Wards," he said instead.

"You never fought krogan before, Vakarian?" she asked, not looking up and not waiting for him to reply. "It's fun."

He just waited, patiently as he could. _Some suspects really want to talk,_ he remembered his father telling him once. _They just don't realise it yet. The best thing you can do is leave them to it_. Not that the biotic in the cell was a suspect, as such. He wasn't sure exactly what she was. He wasn't really sure why he was here.

Nicollier choked back a noise that might have been a laugh, holding her head in her hands.

"So you have brought my amp, or are you just here to gloat?" she asked.

"Gloat?" he asked mildly.

She didn't pause for as long before answering this time.

"We just got back to the Citadel," she said. "The _Resolute_ , I mean. After you pulled the Commander off on whatever special mission you had … well, the Captain was pretty mad about that. But we got new orders almost straight away. So it's not like he had a choice."

Her hands were still clasping the sides of her head, fingers reaching towards the back of her head for a biotic amplifier that wasn't there.

"We were breaking up a human trafficking outfit operating out of the Boltzmann system," she continued. "Right under the Council's nose. Assholes pretending to help people but actually selling them to batarian slavers."

Her voice was oddly flat, as though she was giving a report on something that had happened to somebody else.

"There are a lot of desperate people on Bekenstein," she said. "Refugees, runaways, or just the plain unlucky. They'd take their money, tell them they'll be waking up on Horizon or Terra Nova, then ship them off to Khar'shan or Omega or fuck knows where. But they're only humans, aren't they? I guess C-Sec have more important things to do. Statues of krogan to keep safe from vandals, ornamental fish to protect. Serious things like that."

Nicollier glared up at him and beyond him to the open door leading out into the Academy. She shook her head and let her arms drop flatly to her sides.

"Blackwatch agent found the slavers' base - a disused refinery out in orbit around one of the outer planets. We were able to get a small group on board without without the enemy noticing. Snipers and scouts, with a couple of biotics for support."

"We were meant to go in and extract the ringleader," she said. "Alive. I guess the higher-ups figured he could be persuaded to help identify his contacts .

"We had to sneak past the holding pens to get to the command position. In theory, the people they picked up got stuck in cryo-pods before they ever realised that anything's wrong. Small mercies, right? But a few people wake up early, I guess; or maybe they just ran out of pods. Or the pods weren't the right size for the people they were picking up."

Her voice wavered for a moment.

"All those kids in cages…" she trailed off, fingers clutching at nothing.

"You were supposed to bring him in alive, right?" Whatever his father's advice, Garrus had a feeling he could guess where this story was going.

"Screw you Vakarian," she snapped. "He's still alive. I know how to follow orders. Nobody told me he'd have to be pretty."

Her foot tapped out a nervous irregular pattern on the cell floor. She didn't seem to be aware of it. He found himself wishing that she'd stop, but he didn't say anything further.

"When we got back to the Citadel last night," she continued, "Captain told us we were all free for shore leave for a few days. Some of the others got a group together, went to celebrate. I didn't feel like celebrating though. I wasn't happy we'd caught them; I was angry that they'd got away with it for so long."

"So after a couple of drinks I made my excuses and left. The others probably assumed I was going back to the ship, but I went further down into the wards instead. Knew I wouldn't be able to sleep without seeing those damned cages again.

"Ended up in some awful bar full of drunk turians and dancing asari and a couple of krogan mercenaries. Don't really know what their problem was. Maybe they don't like humans, maybe they were looking for trouble. Maybe I tipped their rycol over the table and asked them what they were going to do about it."

She smiled humorlessly.

"I wasn't lying when I said fighting krogan was fun," she said. "Hadn't ever done it before. They were really mad about that rycol."

Garrus glanced around the cell dubiously. "I'm not sure the consequences are quite as fun," he said. "C-Sec have all these annoying regulations about not starting mass brawls in the middle of the Citadel, and not throwing krogan into walls."

"It's not like the krogan are going to press charges," she shrugged. "I didn't break anything that won't grow back. And C-Sec seemed to sit up and pay attention when I threw out your name."

 _You owe me,_ she didn't say. _I'm calling in a favour_. Not out loud. But it wasn't as if she had to.

"You know Vakarian," she said, in a different, more somber tone than before. "Growing up, I-"

She scowled, stopped talking for a second.

"Honestly," she continued, "The Commander and the crew are the only family I've got left. So if you were planning to tell me you got her killed too, now would be a great time to do it."

She glared at him, making eye contact for the first time since she'd started talking. Her expression reminded him of Shepard, somehow, although other than the obvious species similarities the two humans didn't look all that similar. But the Commander had had a similar expression when she confronted him back on board the _Resolute_ ; when she'd compared her crew to a family.

 _I can't protect them from everything_ , she'd said, _But I can protect them from themselves_.

He didn't think Shepard would be thrilled to know he'd left one of her crew sitting alone in a C-Sec cell.

"Shepard's fine," he said awkwardly, hoping he wasn't lying. "She's on the Citadel now, in fact. I think … ah, excuse me."

_I can't believe I'm doing this._

Garrus stepped outside and summoned the C-Sec detective back over. Chellick looked at him inquisitively without speaking. A good turian, waiting for orders.

"Sorry, Chellick," he said. "I'm going to need you to let this one out. Spectre business."

He hoped Chellick wouldn't ask for any details of this Spectre business. Not that it would matter if he did: Spectre authority was absolute. He didn't think his father would approve. _Do things right_ , he'd said, _Or don't do them at all_. This definitely seemed like it belonged to the latter category.

"Ah. We'll need her amp back, too." he added apologetically, cutting off the C-Sec officer's summary of the various financial penalties and charges to which he'd apparently just agreed to assume liability

He looked away as Nicollier refitted her amp. It seemed somehow intrusive to stare, he thought. She seemed a lot less on edge with the amp than she had a few moments ago.

"The commander's in a meeting down at the asari embassy," he said. "I think she'd be glad to see a friendly face."

"Thanks, Vakarian," the human said, reluctantly, rubbing a hand over the back of her neck and stretching her arms out as she stood up.

She walked ahead of him as they left the building, back towards the central elevator up to the Presidium. They didn't speak, which was fine with him.

At the door of the elevator she turned, looking back over her shoulder and glancing over him.

"You look like shit, by the way," she said. She didn't sound sympathetic.

_[[ You have … ]]_

_[[ Messages deleted ]]_

* * *

⟨⟨ _Solana, I know I can't unsay some of the things I said when we last spoke. But we're family,and I just- ⟩⟩_

_[[ You have unsent messages that have not yet been uploaded to the extranet.]]_

_[[ Do you want to save them? Y / N ]]_

_[[ Messages deleted. ]]_

* * *

"The Matriarch will see you now."

The asari receptionist's tone made it pretty clear that this was an honour he'd do well to cherish. Spectre or not.

Nicollier took a seat next to Shepard, who greeted her with a surprised smile. The Commander seemed better, he thought. More like her usual self. At least as well as he could judge, having only known her for a little over a week. He probably should get around to reading that pad than Mordin had handed to him, he thought. Knew that he probably wouldn't.

He'd looked around for Shiala when they first reached the embassy, but there was no sign of the asari commando. He'd have to try to chase her down later, he decided: the receptionist's increasingly disapproving tone suggested that he'd already waited long enough.

When he entered the chambers where Benezia was waiting, he found the Matriarch standing with her back to him, facing the glass screen that separated the room from the vacuum of space. From here, the Serpent Nebula looked alarmingly close - a looming cloud stretching miles into the sky or, with a sudden shift of perspective, a glittering blue sea into which they could slide into in a moment. Standing before it, Matriarch Benezia looked as though she stood at the eye of the storm, the fulcrum about which the whole nebula spun.

A calculated pose, he suspected, but effective all the same.

"So. You are the Spectre I'd hoped could locate my daughter."

The asari's voice was deeper than he'd been expecting;

"Many of my sisters think me an idealist," she said, turning away from the window. "Or a trouble-maker. Someone who meddles in galactic affairs. They say that it is not fitting for a Matriarch to trouble herself with the troubles of hanar or quarian refugees, or with the diplomatic efforts required to resolve the military posturing of the turians and the batarians. That it is right and proper for an asari maiden to spend her early years on such childishness, but as the centuries pass she should move on to more refined, more spiritual concerns.

"I have always counselled against this view," she said "Argued against the isolationists and autarkists; tried to make the case that the asari must look beyond the Athena Nebula and our own affairs. That we have a duty to the rest of the galaxy, not just to our own kind. But now I find my only daughter pulled into a convoluted web; hiding out who knows where, her life threatened by both the ghosts of the dead past and the new alien allies of the turian Hegemony. And now I am afraid that I was wrong, all these years. Perhaps those who cautioned us to focus ourselves on the problems of Thessia have proven themselves wiser than I."

She fell silent for several seconds, and turned back to the window.

"Forgive me," she said quietly, looking out at the glittering lights of the nebula. "I grow old. And my Liara is still so young. You do not know the responsibility that comes with being a mother: to bring forth a life, to steer it toward happiness or despair."

Garrus could see himself reflected in the dark glass of the window; could see the asari as well, looking out beyond him into the empty darkness.

"My daughter did not always have the childhood I would have wanted for her," she said. "Perhaps no child ever does. I could not always be there when she needed me; there was always just one more politician to meet with, one more conference to attend. She had so few friends of her own age - my fault, perhaps. Her father and I, we ... well. Things ended badly between us."

She shook her head, still staring through her own reflection into the lights of the nebula and beyond.

"On good days we would sit together in the gardens and I would tell her stories of the ancient days, of Athame and her battles with the gods, of brave Lucen and wise Janiri. But there was never enough time."

She shook her head, turning away from the window decisively and taking several quick steps towards him.

"I believe you are acquainted with Nihlus Kryik," she said. "Nihlus is … a friend. Or at least, an ally."

"An ally?" he asked. "What are you allied against?"

"War," she said. "The current stalemate in the Traverse cannot last for long. It must be resolved, in one way or another. Either both sides heed the voices of reason and step back from the brink of disaster, or ..."

She let her voice trail off.

"My mother told me stories of the Krogan Rebellions," she said. "She lived through them herself, of course. The skirmishes and pirate raids are bad enough. I have no desire to see total war between the Hierarchy and the Hegemony. One can only imagine the devastation: billions dead when the turian fleets bombard Khar'shan, countless turian citizens sold into slavery in the Terminus Systems, other nightmares not yet imagined."

She sighed, eyes still seeming to stare past Garrus even though the starscape was behind her.

"The galaxy is vast and full of untapped potential," she finished, with the cadences of a politician slipping unconsciously into a frequently-rehearsed speech. "Surely enough for all its inhabitants to live and grow together in peace. Yet will we instead choose death, because we cannot forget our quarrels?"

Benezia frowned, eyes focusing back on his.

"The galaxy is full of destabilising influences. Voices whispering poison in the ears of the Primarchs and the Overseer, promising glory and triumph and easy victories. Different voices, different motives, but the same corrupting message. Not to mention outside forces like the Shadow Broker or Aria T'Loak or this new Cerberus group."

Her voice had grown quieter as she spoke, but still seemed to echo in the otherwise silent room.

"And I can no longer contact Nihlus. My old ally seems to have vanished."

 _Well, that's not good_. Garrus tried to remember the last time he'd managed to get in touch with Nihlus himself.

"Saren Arterius is also missing." Benezia said softly. "Nobody in Council Space has seen him for months. I believe the Hegemony are quite worried by this. I know that I am worried. Arterius is not, I fear, a man who believes in peace."

 _Yes,_ Garrus thought, _I imagine they would be worried_. Saren's hatred of the batarians was said to date back to his first Spectre mission, when he had helped to liberate the human colony worlds. Other people said that the batarians were somehow to blame for the death of Saren's brother a few years later.

Saren was a respected figure on Palaven and beyond; somebody whose reputation had only grown in recent years. After the war four years, many - like Saren - had argued against the Council imposed ceasefire. A short, inconclusive war followed by years of uncertain peace was not the turian way, the traditionalists had argued. A shamed enemy was only a more dangerous enemy waiting in the future. Sooner or later, Garrus suspected, the traditionalists would have their way. Just as Saren wished.

Saren was also one of several Spectres that Nihlus had warned Garrus to stay clear of. Not because he was one of the Spectres, like Vasir, who Nihlus suspected of being in the employ of the Shadow Broker. ("He's not corrupt, Vakarian," Nihlus had snorted when Garrus had hesitantly raised the idea. "He's just psychotic.") Nilhus had hinted that Saren was linked to a number of officially accidental deaths in Council space, including that of the batarian ambassador Jath'Amon just a few months after the second Blitz.

"I can't prove any of it, of course," Nihlus had conceded ruefully. "And neither can the Hegemony, or they'd be calling for Saren's head for sure. But you must have noticed that the new ambassador isn't one of their upper caste. They're not willing to risk another 'shuttle malfunction'."

Benezia seemed to make a decision, as she looked down at him. Or at least, she accepted that her decision had already been made.

"Please help find my daughter, Spectre Vakarian," she said softly. "I cannot promise it will help avert the war I fear is coming, but it will at least bring me some peace. If there is any truth in the visions of your Commander Shepard, we may all be running out of time."

"Is-" he started, then reconsidered his question. If Nihlus really was missing, as Benezia claimed, then he was more on his own that he'd thought. But then again, so was the Matriarch. And Nihlus going missing could explain why Benezia had been so keen to meet him; sounding out a potential new Spectre ally. _Strange that she'd rather work with a turian that a fellow asari though, isn't it?_ He was going to have a lot to think about.

"How is she?" he asked instead. He'd only paused for a moment.

"I have done what I can," she said, frowning slightly. "These visions … even second-hand, the experience was unnerving. Fire, destruction - everything I have worked for so long to prevent. And yet I could not see clearly: if the Protheans knew more about the disasters they foresaw, it seems they kept it hidden."

"Perhaps your daughter will be able to help explain things?" he said. Doctor T'Soni was supposed to be an expert on the Protheans, after all. But Benezia frowned, shaking her head slightly.

"I fear I cannot promise this," she said. "Perhaps I should encourage you to believe this, but I do not know. My daughter is very young, and there are those who find her ideas … unpersuasive."

She didn't say she was one of them, but then again she hardly needed to do. Garrus didn't need much empathy to imagine what it must have been like for the Matriarch's daughter, growing up in the shadow of an illustrious parent and never quite living up to their expectations. He felt a sudden unexpected sympathy for the daughter of Matriarch Benezia.

Maybe that was why he agreed to help, in the end. Besides, if he was going to be looking for Shol anyway - and he didn't need to talk to the Council to know that they'd want to know where the volus was - it was hardly going to be any extra work to look for one asari archaeologist.

"Vakarian … " she said thoughtfully, just as he turned to leave. "There was a C-Sec officer of that name, a few years ago. By any chance, are you-"

"My father," he said, more stiffly than he'd intended. "He's … ah. He was on Kahje."

"Then I am sorry for your loss," she said, bowing her head slightly in understanding.. "He was a most interesting man. Never forget that family is a privilege, young Spectre. As well as a responsibility."

Back in the antechamber, he took a deep breath. There was something deeply unsettling about talking to a person who had first walked the halls of the Citadel half a millennium ago. Somebody who had been alive when Primarch Visolus signed the Treaty of Altakiril; who had lived through the Revolt on Matrium; who had been a witness to the Geth Wars and the fall of Rannoch. Doubly so when that person had apparently met and remembered your own father.

There was work to be done - he'd have to go and speak to the Council, to start gathering leads on Shol - but he took a few seconds to calm himself first.

The prompt on his visor flashed invitingly. A blank message window, just waiting for-

⟨⟨ _Sol. Can we talk? ⟩⟩_

He fired the message off without giving himself any time for second thoughts.


	18. Scars 2

Every species saw the Citadel in a different way, Vasir reflected.

To the salarians, who had been the second people to walk on the station since its rediscovery, the Citadel was first and foremost a scientific mystery. Perhaps the ultimate mystery left in the galaxy. How had its builders -- the mysterious and long-vanished Protheans -- constructed it? How had it survived the Protheans' sudden disappearance when so much else of their civilization had not? From where had the strange lifeforms who maintained the station first come: were they some mutant offshoot of the Protheans, a client species, or something altogether different? How did the Citadel maintain its artificial atmosphere; what secrets were hidden away in parts of the structure as yet unexplored? What had the Protheans used the Citadel for? Had it originally been designed as an observatory perhaps, or as an experiment, or a military outpost, or even as a weapon? The salarians had many questions, and - for all the generations of salarian lives that had passed since those first visitors had arrived - very few answers.

The volus saw the Citadel as an opportunity. True, the air was full of poisonous, unbreathable oxygen and the atmosphere was so thin as to be barely noticeable. But that didn't matter: what was uninhabitable to a volus could be home to somebody else. And that meant it was valuable to everyone. The volus spent most of their lives in exosuits, but the possibilities for advancement that the galaxy offered made that all worthwhile. When the explorers and the adventurous and the dreamers came to the Citadel, they would do so backed by Vol-clan loans, and when they stayed they would buy merchandise from the volus who came to the Citadel to sell it. Anywhere there was people, there was profit to be made.

The krogan had seen the Citadel as a prize, before the Rebellions. Something that could be won if they fought hard enough, whether against the rachni or the turians or anything else the galaxy had to throw at them. Accepted as a gift from a grateful galaxy, or wrested out of its owners' unwilling hands. After the Rebellions, of course, the survivors had had other things than dreams of the Citadel with which to be occupied. If any krogan Battlemasters still dreamt of sitting on a throne in the upper chambers of the Citadel tower, they were smart enough to keep those dreams to themselves.

To the turians, the Citadel was primarily a key military strongpoint. Sitting at the nexus of dozens of major and minor mass relays, control of the Citadel would give a fleet almost immediate access to hundreds of populated star systems.. Military control of the Citadel meant almost unchallenged control of the relay network itself, and that meant that the turian fleets could stand watch over most of the galaxy. Turian ships defended the Citadel, and turian recruits made up most of C-Sec. The turians, Vasir thought sadly, were not particularly inventive thinkers.

The elcor saw the Citadel as a refuge, a quiet sanctuary in a galaxy that was all too often fast-paced and bewildering. For a people who hated change and noise, the quiet constancy of the Citadel was a welcome oasis of calm and solidity, almost as welcoming and dependable as the gentle plains of Dekuuna. While the other species fretted and strutted across the galactic stage, the elcor could rest easy on the Citadel. Here, at least, each day that passed would be much like the thousands that had come before.

The batarians saw the Citadel as an insult, or perhaps a threat: A den of iniquity, where species and orders of all kinds mingled together like animals, with no respect for how things should be done. This was no place for decent batarians who respected the old traditions and turned their eyes respectively away when the priests walked by. This was an unholy place, where casteless troublemakers, political dissidents and escaped slaves would come to hide from justice and plot treason against the enlighted order of the Hegemony. A place full of aliens who had largely abandoned the batarians to the unprovoked military expansionism of the turian threat on their borders. The few batarians who still visited the Citadel these days walked about in groups, looked around suspiciously at the turian guards and muttered to themselves about the turian ships in orbit.

And so on, and so on.

The hanar had seen the Citadel as a holy site; a testament to the glory and splendor of the Enkindlers. That was exactly how the hanar had seen all of the surviving Prothean relics they knew of, as well as anything sufficiently novel or impressive that they had decided could also be credited to the Protheans. The hanar had been even less inventive thinkers than the turians, Vasir reflected. Still, the hanar were mostly gone now, and so much for their misplaced devotions. Their opinion of the Citadel mattered as little now as that of the quarians or the humans or the vorcha or the drell. The galaxy belonged to the living, and not to the dead.

Nobody had grasped the true essence of the Citadel as fundamentally the first asari explorers who set foot on it almost three thousand years ago.

Whoever sat at the top of the Presidium Tower, waiting to greet each new arrival as they disembarked and stared about, was making an unstated but undeniable boast. A boast that said simply: _We were the first. We were the first to discover this place. You may explore it to your hearts' content, for we are a generous people. You may study here, shelter here, work here and live here, for we are happy to share what we have with the rest of the galaxy. Are you impressed, are you awed, are you humbled? Yes, this is an amazing place: a place of secrets and opportunities, a place of strength and stability. And we were here first._

The Citadel was many things to many people, but it was above all else a symbol. The Protheans had built it, just as they had built the mass relay network and - wittingly or not - sowed the seeds for all the intelligent space-faring races that would come into the galaxy after them. Whoever sat atop the Citadel Tower announced themselves to the galaxy as foremost among all the inheritors of the vanished Protheans.

The Protheans had constructed the physical shell of this place, but the asari had taken it and made it the heart of a civilisation that stretched across a galaxy. The Protheans had built a station, but the asari had named it, repurposed it for the modern age. The asari had made it the Citadel.

And yet after all these years, the Citadel felt like more than a symbol to Vasir. As her shuttle set down and she strolled across the familiar bridges and walkways of the Presidium, she'd felt herself relaxing for the first time in months. Coming back to the Citadel felt almost as good as visiting Thessia.

It felt like coming home.

The Spectre Offices were quiet today. She was glad of it. Vital though the work of the Spectres was to defending the civilisation her people had built up, she found the company of most of fellow Spectres to be tedious, if not downright unpleasant. _Particularly the turians_. Arterius hadn't been back to the Citadel in a while, but she'd been bracing herself for another run in with Kryik.

But it seemed as if she was in luck. According to the office records, only three other Spectres had so much as set foot on the Citadel in recent weeks, and neither Arterius or Kyrik were among them.

Lonar Maerun was another turian, but not one she'd ever interacted with much. The records showed that he'd logged in a few days ago, spent an hour or so in the shooting range, then left for the Wards with that salarian he was always hanging around with. Vasir glanced at the scores he'd posted, unimpressed, and decided he'd have been better off spending more time practicing how to aim and less time getting drunk in Archos.

The salarian Spectre was Jondum Bau, who was almost painfully harmless. Vasir suspected his nomination owed more to internal salarian politics than any particular merit on his part. For all that the salarians had inspired the creation of the Spectre program, their most talented and dangerous operatives still tended to prefer to stay with the Salarian Union's own Special Tasks Group.

And then the third Spectre was young Vakarian, who was … _hmm_.

_Just what was the young turian doing visiting the_ asari _embassies?_ Hadn't the Council decided that Vakarian's talents were better suited to keeping that rich idiot Kumun Shol happy? She frowned irritably. There was something of an unspoken convention that Spectres tended to stay out of each others' local politics. A convention that she herself had arguably broken with first, by agreeing to look into the Cerberus affair. Not that she'd expect anybody to have bothered to let Vakarian know about such things.

Perhaps she'd go and find out for herself, if there was nothing more pressing to be dealt with.

Vasir skimmed her messages quickly. Nothing new on the Cerberus investigation, she saw. A few personal messages from home that she'd look through later; some old contacts reaching out to see if she was looking to buy intel on some low-level local crimes. Corruption, some piracy, a little kidnapping - nothing that caught her interest. And a message from Barla Von, she saw, which she certainly wasn't going to reply to.

She paused for a few seconds, fingers tapping idly on the desk, then deleted the message from the volus unread. One could never be too careful, after all.

* * *

She could probably have found out everything she needed to know about Vakarian's visit without leaving the comfort of the office. But sometime it paid to be a bit more hands-on.

That was why she'd made the short trip out of the Spectre offices and over to the asari embassy. The asari embassies were some of the oldest on the Citadel; a large complex of offices sprawling across the Presiduum. The buildings themselves weren't unchanging, of course -- nothing on the Citadel was, or could be. Not with the keepers always underfoot and rearranging things. But the buildings' location, and their function -- that was almost as old as the Council itself.

Visitors were sometimes confused by the asari embassies. Surely the Asari Republics did not need an ambassador to raise their concerns with the Council? But of course there was more to the job of an ambassador than speaking with the Council.

The elcor, the volus, the batarians and the rest sent their representatives to beg favours from the Council, yes, but also to talk to one another: to threaten, to bluster, to charm and to befriend. There was no need to involve the council in every minor trading discussion or border dispute, after all. And so it was for the embassies of the asari, salarians and the turians. At the embassies, representatives to other species could mingle and compare notes, and trade delegations could meet to discuss details of commerce too insignificant to bother the Council with. Curious local residents could learn more about the scientific and cultural achievements of the asari people, and diplomats and spies could have somewhere safe to lie low.

The asari embassy also served another crucial purpose: it gave young, inquisitive asari something to do.

"Oh, hey Vasir." One such asari greeted her brightly as she made her way up to the stairs. "Are you here to see the Matriarch?"

In truth, she hadn't known any Matriarch was due to be visiting the Citadel. Not that she had any intention of admitting that, of course. She had a reputation to maintain.

"Keri," she smiled back, not entirely insincerely. "You know you're the only excuse I need to visit this place."

Keri T'Vessa was a regular presence at the embassy - although perhaps not for much longer. Her mother was ambassador to the elcor; which wasn't the sort of role people stayed in for life. In a few years, a few decades at most, Keri's mother would be moving on to bigger and better things. Or, if things went sufficiently badly, she'd be quietly promoted sideways - shifted out of the way for somebody with more potential, more hunger.

And Keri was a trouble-maker: just the right sort of age to be mildly rebellious, but without any real target to rebel against. She wasn't considered a security risk, of course, but Vasir thought it was only a matter of time before she got bored of embassy life and decided to strike out on her own. She didn't seem the sort of kid who'd head off to Omega or join a mercenary gang, but … well, people could surprise you, if you let them. Vasir preferred not to give them the chance.

"Benezia's in a meeting with the Councillor right now," Keri continued, still fishing for potential gossip. She didn't actually work in the embassy herself, but she generally had a good idea of what was going on.

Vasir just raised an eyebrow noncommittally. She knew Keri didn't need an excuse to keep talking.

"Her daughter," Keri began. "She - well, you know she's a pureblood, right?""

The young asari lowered her voice conspiratorially on the last two words, glancing somewhat self-consciously around in case anybody else was listening in. Matriarchs were supposed to be exemplars of the best of asari traditions and values. They were supposed to inspire and impress the younger generations. They weren't supposed to have barely-acknowledged, half-hidden pureblood daughters. And yet that was precisely the daughter Benezia had. The only daughter she had, despite living for almost nine hundred years.

Vasir knew all about Benezia's daughter, of course. Though truth was that there wasn't much to know. Circumstances of her birth aside, she was really an incredibly dull young woman, in Vasir's opinion. Studious, self-effacing and more interested in digging around in the dirt of the dead Protheans than anything of real importance.

"I've heard she was supposed to be staying on a planet out in the Artemis Tau cluster," Keri whispered. "Away from any other asari, if you know what I mean." .

There were always rumours about young, famous pureblood children, of course. How could there not be? Whispers of a name so old the language it was taken from was no longer spoken aloud; a creature out of childhood nightmares. Scandal, sex, madness and death - it would be more intriguing if people didn't speculate. But the rumours meant nothing.

Besides, Vasir had heard a few things about Keri's mother … enough to be suspicious of the official story that her co-parent was a elcor dignitary who'd chosen to stay back on Dekuuna. Not all mothers of purebloods had the nerve to flaunt it the way Benezia had done, after all.

"But now she's gone missing," Keri finished, in the same hushed tones. "And now Benezia is looking for somebody to help to find her. Before anything bad happens … to her, I mean."

Despite Keri's hints, Vasir knew for a certainty that there was no chance of Benezia's daughter carrying the taint of the Ardat-Yakshi curse. Children were tested for that, after all, and the results of those tests were less secure than the children's parents probably assumed. _Now that_ would _have been a scandal_. Despite what people said, most purebloods weren't at all dangerous. A symptom of weakness on their parents' behalf, but not any sort of threat in themselves. Still, the rumours helped encourage people not to have pureblood children, which was probably for the best.

Vasir's own father had been a salarian dalatrass, or so her mother had told her. Vasir didn't remember much about her father, of course; she'd died of old age while Vasir had been only a young child.

"I thought the turian looked awfully young for a Spectre," Keri continued, "But then all turians look young to me, I guess."

_Vakarian and Benezia_? The Matriarch must be desperate, Vasir reflected. Benezia had spent centuries cultivating links with the Hierarchy, not to mention with other species like the elcor and the hanar before that.

She chatted idly with Keri for a few minutes more, barely paying attention.

_Perhaps I should have a word with Councillor Tevos_ , she thought.

* * *

Vasir had been waiting for almost an hour before Tevos emerged from the embassy.

The Councillor seemed distracted, Vasir thought. Or perhaps annoyed was closer to the mark. In any case, Tevos didn't notice the Spectre trailing her down the gentle marble stairway that led away from the asari embassies.

By long-standing custom the Councillors almost always travelled the Citadel without bodyguards. So Tevos made her way down the steps leading to the Citadel Tower elevator alone, and waited at the base of the Tower alone, and when the summoned lift arrived she strode through the doors alone. Or at least, she must have thought she was alone, until the elevator started rising upwards and Vasir deactivated her tactical cloak.

No asari leader would risk something so extravagant as walking around without an entourage on Thessia - at least, no asari who wished to keep being a leader. Between the petitioners, the fanatics, the journalists and the desperate, she'd never be able to get anything _done_. Not to mention the threat of assassination attempts. But then the Councillors weren't quite leaders, not in the way most people meant the word. At least not officially. They were representatives of their species, nut rulers over them. And in fact, the Councillors had surprisingly little power in their own right, once you stripped away all the pomp and theatre. You just had to look at who the Council races sent to fill the Council to realise that.

Councillor Sparatus wasn't one of the Primarchs, the handful of citizens who had managed to struggle to the upper levels of turian society. He had a honorific military rank, grand enough to seem impressive, but he commanded no fleets and led no legions. Ever since the Unification Wars, the Hierarchy had been a firmly centralised government, and that centre was on Palaven. In truth, the turian Councillor was little more than a glorified ambassador: And the current office holder clearly knew that all too well; venting his obvious frustrations at the limited nature of his role through sarcastic asides and occasionally territorial squabbles..

The current salarian Councillor wasn't even female, which told you all you needed to know about how little importance the dalatrasses placed in the position. Vasir hadn't bothered to learn his name yet; wasn't sure if she ever would. He said little, contributed less, and when the Council was split almost invariably voted against Sparatus.

And as for the asari Councillor Vasir was now sharing an elevator with..

"Vasir," said Tevos, relaxing slightly when she recognised her fellow traveller. "What brings you back to the Citadel?"

Tevos was all right, in Vasir's opinion.

"Just checking in," Vasir shrugged.

She didn't think there was much to be gained in reporting on the progress she'd made in the Cerberus case; not until she'd really managed to get to the heart of things. Knowing that President William's granddaughter's remains weren't where the Systems Alliance said they were was one thing; the Council would want to know - and Vasir herself wanted to know - where they actually were. _Assuming that the girl is actually dead,_ she thought. That was an assumption she wasn't sure it was safe to make.

"I hope the Matriarch hasn't enlisted you too," said Tevos, an irritated expression briefly visible on her face before she quickly suppressed it.

Councillor Tevos had ended up on the Citadel the hard way; a victim of the constant high-stakes internecine political maneuvering to which so many of the asari on Thessia devoted their lives (just as they loudly insisted to outsiders that Thessia had no political class to speak of). A century ago Tevos had been an aspiring politician, working her way rapidly up from regional administrator through a series of increasingly grander titles. The young Tevos had had firm ideas about the future of Thessia; they tended to involve her being one of the asari to shape it.

And for a while it had looked as if those ideas might become reality. For decades the young asari's rise had been as smooth as it was rapid. She'd been the youngest person to take office on the Serrice Council in decades; the youngest to speak on the floor of the Grand Assembly on Thessia in centuries. Her rise had seemed inevitable.

But finally she'd overstretched - backed the wrong faction, or attempted to double-cross the wrong Matriarch. Perhaps she'd just been unlucky - Vasir had never been able to ascertain the precise details, which was a failure that still rankled sometimes. In any case, things had gone badly wrong.

In ancient times, before the asari had set foot on the Citadel, before their homeworld had been united under the common flag of the Republics, the victors of a high-level political struggle might have had their vanquished foes killed. The old histories were full of macabre tales of would-be leaders who'd met with grisly ends: blinded, tortured and left to rot in some dark forgotten oubliette, hacked to pieces on the battlefield, or eviscerated and left hanging from one of the great trees that grew up and around the great marble plazas of Serrice. But things were different in this civilized age; the cruelties more subtle, though just as real.

So they'd promoted her, instead. Exiled her from her home world, in all but name: sent her far away from her allies and her political support. As Councillor she could be useful to Thessia and the future of the asari, but never again would she be able to dream of shaping that future.

"Enlisted me?" Vasir replied, as blandly as possible. "To what end?"

It might have surprised Tevos's enemies to see how well she had adapted to her new role in life. How she'd transitioned from the role of a politician and activist to that of a galactic diplomat . How well she dealt with the every changing demands on her time and resources; how she steered the other Councillors; how she'd coped with the fallout of the batarian and turian border skirmishes, and with the political and social ramifications of the fall of Kahje.

The reality, of course, was that they probably didn't care in the slightest. What did the Council matter, after all, in the ever-changing games of the Matriarchs? The Citadel was a symbol of asari greatness, but only a child would confuse a symbol with the thing itself.

Tevos narrowed her eyes slightly, unimpressed by Vasir's response.

"Benezia's lost her daughter," she said. "As I'm sure you were already well aware. She's been going behind the Council's back, trying to divert resources to find her."

The strange thing was, as far as Vasir had been able to work out, before her fall from grace Tevos had been a ardent supporter of Benezia's program; one of the minority of asari who thought that Thessia should play a greater role on the galactic stage. They'd been … not allies, as such - Tevos had never been quite that important - but certainly fellow thinkers. Not that an observer would have been able to work that out now. _Well, we all grow up eventually, I suppose_.

"And now she's dragged Vakarian into things," she said sourly. "Apparently he ran into some trouble on Omega and she was able to come to his aid. And she's calling in the favour."

Vasir didn't like Vakarian much, but she almost felt sorry for him at that point. Spectres were supposed to solve problems for the Council. They weren't supposed to bring in more trouble. She wondered if Tevos had dragged Vakarian up to the Citadel Tower for a dressing down yet, or if she was waiting for all three of the Council to meet first.

Tevos looked at her without speaking, as the elevator continued its silent progression upwards.

"You seem to have some time on your hands," the Councillor said thoughtfully.

Vasir half-shrugged. She didn't have any urgent business, it was true - and even if she had, she had the feeling that the Councilor's remarks could have been phrased as an order just as easily as an observation.

"Vakarian will be heading off the Citadel soon," Tevos said. "Benezia has called on the Council to provide him with a ship, and I'm sure Sparatus won't mind obliging."

Vasir kept her face carefully blank, but inwardly she smirked at that: they both knew that Sparatus would be indignant about being imposed upon. But ultimately Vakarian was a turian Spectre, and so it was up to the turian Councillor to see that he was properly equipped.

"Vakarian's had a difficult few weeks," Tevos said thoughtfully. "This business on Omega is just the most recent trouble. The Council feel he could benefit from the support of a more experienced agent. Just to help him find his feet."

' _Good luck finding somebody to volunteer for that',_ Vasir would have thought, if it wasn't painfully clear just who was being volunteered.

The Councillor flashed her a polished politician's smile, and Vasir sighed inwardly. This was what she got for poking around in things that weren't supposed to be her concern. She wondered if her sudden appearance in the elevator had given Tevos the idea, or if she'd only brought this particular fate forward a few hours.

"I'd be grateful if you could keep an eye on things," the Councillor continued. "Make sure that our young friend Vakarian doesn't get into too much trouble."

What else could she do but agree? They'd reached the top of the tower now, and Tevos was on her way up to the central chamber, pausing only briefly to check that Vasir had the details of when and where to meet Vakarian before his new ship departed.

"And Vasir," the Councillor paused, looking back over her shoulder thoughtfully. "Do try not to kill anyone."

* * *

Somebody was waiting for Vasir when she got back to the Spectre offices. Somebody she recognised at once.

"Vasir, we have a problem."

And she'd really been hoping to avoid Barla Von this visit.

It was an open secret that the financier had a second life as an agent for the Shadow Broker. And that caused problems for those on the Citadel whose employment by the Shadow Broker was less overt. Spending too much time in his company would be seen as suspicious, and yet ignoring him entirely would have been almost equally strange.

("Von goes out of his way to ingratiate himself with us in the hopes that we'll let slip something his employer can use", she could imagine Kryik drawling in that grating way of his. "Yet apparently he doesn't want to talk to you. What could he know about you that we don't?")

She should probably let him pester her more than she did.

But the fact was, she just didn't like him.

"Let's take a walk," she suggested, leading the way before he could object.

In theory this whole level of the Citadel was covered by C-Sec's security cameras: . In practice though, there were certain dark spots: places where, for one reason or another, the cameras wouldn't pick things up. Such failings were blamed on the keepers, usually, or on criminal gangs. Sometimes they were the result of C-Sec's own tampering - even turian investigators could see the virtue in knowing a few places where suspects could be interrogated a little more firmly than regulations allowed

And Vasir knew they were heading towards one such dark spot now. She'd written and uploaded the virus which corrupted the feed from those particular cameras herself, after all. So she smiled politely and counted under her breath as Barla Von scurried after her. One, two more steps around the corner, and _now_ they were out of sight of the working security cameras, and now she could spin around, lift the volus up by his chin and slam him against the wall.

"What in the goddess' name do you think you're doing?" she hissed, furiously as Barla Von struggled feebly. "We're not friends. You're not a Councillor. We don't have any reason to been seen together."

"He's here!" the volus wheezed, voice even more strained than usual. "Vakarian! On the Citadel! He must be after me. He must know -"

For a moment or two, Vasir was too puzzled to be angry. She let Von slide down the wall, just looking at him. He dusted himself down as he scrambled up from the floor, voice wheezing heavily through his respirator.

"Why would Vakarian be after you?" she asked.

"Because I tried to kidnap him!"

She blinked. That had not been one of the answers she'd considered. Von was normally a bit less directly involved in hands-on operations than that.

"Not personally, of course," the financier clarified hastily. "I hired a mercenary group, out on Omega. I should have known things were going wrong when they were slow to report back."

Even hiring mercenaries was a bit more than Von would normally be expected to do. And yet, something about the way he'd frame this bothered.

"You hired," she said, flatly. "On your own initiative?"

"I may have been … indiscreet," the volus admitted. "But I saw an opportunity."

Tevos had said that Vakarian had got into trouble on Omega, Vasir reflected.

"You can't just kidnap a Council Spectre," she snapped. "Even on Omega. People notice that sort of thing. People ask questions."

Her biotics flared up around her, almost without conscious thought. She loomed over the volus, who staggered back onto the floor. His face was invisible behind the mask, of course, but his eyes seemed wider than they had a few minutes ago.

"I don't like it when other people ask questions," she murmured, voice pitched low and menacing. "They could start looking for answers in all the wrong places."

_You were worried about Vakarian?_ she thought. _There's only one Spectre you should be afraid of right now, and you're bothering her._

"The Broker wants to know … what was on that beacon," Von stammered. "I thought …"

_The beacon?_ Vasir hadn't known that the Broker had any special interest in Prothean matters. Maybe she should have let him know about her involvement, but it had hardly seemed a priority. And how would kidnapping Vakarian help anyone understand what was on the beacon? It was the human that they'd want for that, surely? At least, Vasir assumed she was still alive; her injuries hadn't seemed life-threatening according to what the doctor on the _Resolute_ had said.

She smiled coldly to herself, letting her biotic aura die back down. Working for both the Council and the Shadow Broker could be awkward, sometimes, but this was beginning to look like an opportunity to get paid twice for a single assignment. Besides, anybody tracking her movement the camera feeds was bound to get curious if they didn't walk past a working camera soon.

"Don't worry about Vakarian," she said, offering the volus a hand back up. "I'll soon have things under control."


	19. Nemesis

The streets of Omega were littered with filth and stinking refuse. Humans and vorcha begging in the gutters, vermin fighting over pitiful scraps. Duplicitous elcor and volus merchants cheating and scheming in the open air markets, krogan and turian thugs wandering freely through the crowds

It was enough to turn his stomach. For all its boasts to the contrary, Omega was really no better than any part of Council space. A degenerate stew of mixed cultures and species, barely distinguishable from what could be found polluting the lowest wards of the Citadel itself. Even the batarians who lived here were a feeble sort: the worst of the dregs of the lower castes. Escaped slaves, exiled heretics, lesser sons of merchants and mongrels. Mercenaries and thieves; almost none with any loyalty to the planet of their origin.

Ka'hairal Balak looked forward more and more each day to the moment when High Command would give the order to take Omega in the name of the Hegemony. The Nebula had been left untouched for too long; control of the systems' relay network connections was too important; and Omega itself had been left to rot in so-called independence for too many years.

All worlds needed leadership, and Omega was no exception. It needed a firm guiding hand to lead it towards greatness, not the indifferent neglect of the self-styled Queen of Omega. What claim could any asari have to Omega, half a galaxy or more away from the slumbering spires of Thessia? The asari were soft and weak, ill-suited to the position of power in which they found themselves.

No, Balak knew that this state of affairs simply could not last. One day the Hegemony would reach out an armoured fist and take Omega for itself. The sooner the better, for all concerned. Some species could not be trusted with freedom: Omega itself was proof of that.

And when the glorious day arrived, he hoped and prayed to the spirits of his ancestors that he would be chosen to serve on the front lines. He let himself imagine the sound of infantry marching through Omega's streets, and the smell of smoke as the asari's nightclub burned to the ground, and he found he could almost smile.

* * *

In truth, in the years since Balak had sworn his oaths of fealty to the Overseer the war against the turians had not necessarily developed to the Hegemony's advantage.

_We're completely fucked now_ , was the less diplomatic way Balak's old CO had put it, in the aftermath of the retreat from Torfan. _Those turian bastards have us by the throat and they're going to squeeze hard._ The man had been drinking heavily, slurring his words, swaying on his feet, blood-shot tears in his three remaining eyes. But Balak had found it hard to disagree with his assessment.

(He'd still reported his superior to High Command for treason at the first opportunity, of course. He wasn't an idiot, and the mere fact that something was true didn't mean it should be said out loud. And the Overseer had been particularly anxious to find traitors, at the moment in history. Somebody had to be blamed for what had gone so wrong.)

Nonetheless, in the privacy of his own thoughts, Balak could admit that things looked bleak for the Hegemony. They had been outfought at Torfan, and they had been outmaneuvered by the turians' spies and diplomats in the years that followed.

But he trusted in the plans of the Overseer and his advisors. More than that, he had faith in the genetic superiority of his species. Forged through struggle and adversity, refined and cultivated through years of careful breeding. Whatever the whims and vagaries of chance, the stronger civilization would always win out in the end. The very laws of evolution, of natural selection, proved that to be so.

Let the old order quake and struggle as it might: the destiny of the batarian people would not be denied.

* * *

Balak had been a child when the war began in earnest, still in training.

Strange to think that it had been almost twenty years now. How much the galaxy had changed since then.

In hindsight, armed conflict between the Hierarchy and the Hegemony had always been inevitable. The turians were too proud, too greedy, for peaceful coexistence to have been possible. And the Council were too weak and cowardly to be trusted to defend what was the batarians' by right. Only through strength could the Hegemony defend itself.

The immediate spark had seemed almost inconsequential, at the time. The discovery of a minor space-faring race, somehow undetected for all this time, living on systems that clearly fell within the batarian sphere of influence. That meant a dozen new worlds to settle for the Hegemony, that meant more breeding stock for the slave corps.

He hadn't suspected then that the turians would choose to intervene. Why would they?

The new worlds were of little value to them, far off in the Traverse as they were. The species living there had little in common with their unexpected protectors, other than the two missing eyes that the priests taught was a certain sign of spiritual degradation.

But intervene they had. He didn't care to speculate as to their motives; didn't waste time listening to their self-serving justifications after the fact. Who knew what dark motives stirred the hearts of the turians?

Whatever their reasons, the decision had inflicted misery and defeat on the batarian people for too many years. Balak's own father had lost an arm and a career at Indris, fighting the flagships of the turian fleet. He'd been one of the lucky ones even then.

Arterius was the name of the Spectre responsible for it all. Saren Arterius. A name that would live in infamy, for as long as there was a Hegemony to remember it.

Balak repeated the oath to himself once more and frowned, unhappy with his wording.

There would _always_ be a Hegemony, of course. To even think otherwise was … well, some treason was not safe to commit even in the privacy of one's thoughts.

* * *

Balak was in a particularly foul mood this morning.

His days on Omega weren't solely dedicated to brooding on the war, however it felt at times. Thoughts of retribution and revenge on the Hegemony's enemies could only keep him warm and fed in a strictly metaphorical sense. For his more mundane needs, the galaxy required credits.

So he had a job, of sorts. A way to keep the credits rolling in: acting as bodyguard and enforcer for a local batarian merchant. Well, a type of merchant. A criminal, to be precise. A gangster, albeit of a rather unimpressive kind.

It would have been one thing if the merchant had stuck to honest trades, selling ordinary goods like eezo or slaves. That was what his caste was bred for, after all. Yet slaves were cheap and plentiful, and eezo was rare and difficult to obtain. Which meant that the neither was particularly profitable, once the usual rules of supply and demand were accounted for. So the man also maintained a lucrative side business in red sand smuggling, among other intoxicants, in gambling rings and high-interest loans.

Balak had no sympathy for the red sand addicts he sometimes saw lying slumped in Omega's alleys. But he had little respect for those that sold such products either. Narcotics like red sand made you weak, dependant. Which is exactly what the Council wanted them to be. Even selling the drugs made you complicit in their attempt to undermine his people.

Yet none of this was the direct cause of Balak's mood.

Interesting times had come to Omega. The former leader of the krogan Blood Pack was dead. Murdered in his base by a team of asari commandos, or so the rumour went. None of the people spreading that particular rumour could agree on the asaris' motives, naturally. Perhaps he had merely been killed by a rival, or injured himself in a bout of unthinking blood rage.

What mattered was that Garm was dead, and the Blood Pack was in disarray, Garm's former lieutenants scrambling over the wreckage of his kingdom to assert themselves as his heir.

It was the perfect time to expand, or so Balak had tried to argue. To seize new territory for themselves. But his employer had thought otherwise. Where Balak had seen opportunity, the other batarian saw only risk.

It wasn't just the varren and krogan that he was worried about. The salarian brothers who ran the Eclipse mercs on Omega were also seeking to expand, perhaps even gearing themselves up for war against Aria herself. With the Blood Pack so reduced, Eclipse was the most powerful group on Omega, except - perhaps - for Aria herself. And the Queen of Omega was said to be in a furious rage these days, for reasons nobody could seem to fathom, exiling old advisors and executing others.

_Strike_ , he had urged his employer. The man might have been a degenerate criminal, but he was a batarian, and better he rule than a pair of greasy salarians or that asari. With luck, and bold moves, who knew what would be possible? No one had ever won a war by surrendering.

But his advice had fallen on deaf ears. His employer had even started talking about pulling out of Omega altogether, falling back to one of the colony worlds while the other gangs fought it out. It had been a shameful display, one Balak had found demeaning to even witness.

Balak could overlook many failings, he had discovered. But he drew the line at cowardice.

* * *

Sixteen years after it began, the armed phase of the conflict had resumed in earnest.

Balak hadn't been a child anymore. He'd seen it coming, this time. They all had.

The human worlds had seemed to be on the edge of open revolt. The turian forces stretched overly thin across their newly seized worlds. Surely it had been the ideal moment to correct what had once gone wrong.

But appearances had been deceiving. The humans hadn't acted the way High Command had predicted; the Hierarchy's troops had fought harder than they'd planned; the Council had been more biased in their support of the turians than they had feared.

At the Battle of Indris, the Hegemony's fleets had fought the Hierarchy to a virtual stalemate, despite the turians' superior numbers and delusions of tactical prowess. But it hadn't been enough. Moral victories never were.

Indris had been the only full fleet engagement of that period of the war. With its colonies cut off and its ports blockaded, the Hegemony couldn't spare any more ships in pitched engagements. So instead they'd been pushed slowly backwards, one world at a time, losing everything they'd gained in the initial surge. Losing territory they'd paid for dearly in blood and lives.

Then everything had fallen apart at Torfan.

* * *

Balak had left two cousins behind on Torfan, their bodies rotting in the squalor and mud below the moon's surface with so many other soldiers of the Hegemony.

Granted, he hadn't particularly liked either of his cousins - a pair of mewling idiots, in his opinion, barely qualified to lead the divisions they had been granted - but that simply wasn't the point. They may have been useless, but they were family: bound together by ties of blood and honor. His cousins had been heirs to the very first Overseers; born into the highest castes of princes and priests. Their forefathers had been on Khar'shan to watch the first raising of the Pillars of Strength, back in the distant age before the first rockets lifted batarian civilization up into the heavens. It wasn't right that some upstart apes could just cut them down in the dirt like they were nothing.

The Battle of Torfan had been four years ago now. Four long years of turian diplomats whispering poison into the ears of the Council; while their new allies grew stronger and more fierce. Nurtured like a pack of angry varren, scores of wild biotics like the Butcher herself bred only to wage war against the Hegemony. Four long years of waiting for the Primarchs' next blow to fall.

Waiting, but not waiting idly. That was why he and his men were on Omega, in a way. That was why he suffered the indignity of posing as second to a lower caste criminal who, back on on Khar'shan, he'd have sooner seen in the stocks. Because High Command hadn't let those years go to waste.

His squad had been stationed out here for months. One of dozens of special forces divisions scattered around the Terminus Systems and on the fringes of batarian space. Some day soon open fighting with the turians would resume in earnest, and when it did the Overseer intended to be ready. However the enemy schemed, the Hegemony's forces would not be surprised again.

When the next phase of the war began in earnest, the Hierarchy would not find the Hegemony's forces as ill-prepared as they had been four years earlier. Never again would they let their military strength be isolated and routed at a single point of weakness. Instead, the Primarchs would find that the war would be fought on more fronts than they could have imagined.

As soon as the fighting began, officially neutral worlds like Omega and Mannoval would raise the standards of the Hegemony as batarian external forces seized control of their capitals. Orbital strikes and conveniently timed nuclear accidents would cripple settlements that had thought themselves safe from the fighting. Privateers would swarm key relay terminals, disrupting both communications and the flow of crucial supplies. And turian colonies would be made to bleed all across the galaxy. Long overdue redress for the blood spilled by batarian patriots during the past two decades.

And until then, no matter how little he liked it, Balak would wait. Revenge, like a fine wine, would taste all the sweeter with the passage of time.

* * *

It had been weeks since they had received even routine messages from High Command. They couldn't be communicated with directly; surprise and stealth were the greatest assets. Direct radio broadcasts could be detected, even if the military's ciphers were unbreakable, and quantum entanglement protocols were prohibitively expensive. Even third party couriers or extranet communication could not be trusted: it was too easy to imagine an agent being compromised, or a crucial piece of infrastructure being suborned.

The only safe method was the dead drop, the ancient tool of spies and intelligence agents the galaxy over. So each week Balak toured the markets, covertly checking pre-arranged spots for new missives from Khar'shan or secreting his own return messages in others. And so slowly but surely, orders trickled one way, while status reports and updates trickled slowly the other way. All undetected by the turians and their operatives.

But for weeks now, nothing had arrived. No instructions, no change of plans. Not a thing.

So it was something of a surprise, that morning, to find something waiting for him at the drop point.

_New orders, at last_. Balak allowed himself a brief second to fantasise that the war for Omega was about to begin. _Today would be a good day to_ … but no. The war would not resume in earnest today. Not on Omega, anyway.

Still, orders were orders. Balak waited until he was safely out of sight of any onlookers before he studied the message in earnest.

It was not what he had expected. No news of overt turian movements, no suggestion of exploiting the current chaos on Omega. Instead there were reports of trouble on Solem's Redoubt, a colony world in the Attican Beta cluster, one of the few worlds the Hegemony had been able to wrest away from turian control in the last decades. A world the Hierarchy hadn't seem too concerned about winning back, but one that military intelligence had nonetheless flagged as crucial to the war effort. And no wonder, when the surface of the world was covered with Prothean ruins.

It seemed that all transmissions from Solem's Redoubt had ceased abruptly two days ago. His orders were to jump to the colony, placing it under martial law if it still stood, with authorization to use lethal force if necessary. If the colony had fallen, his orders were to avenge it. Either way, he was to investigate the reason for the radio silence and ensure that the Prothean ruins remained secure.

Not quite the heroic mission he'd signed up, he reflected. If he'd wanted to be a colonial administrator, he'd never have volunteered for special forces training. It promised to be onerous and unglamourous work.

But the prize...

When espionage and diplomacy ended and fighting began once more, Balak knew that the odds would be stacked against them, whatever the official line. Units like his own would harass and delay the turian forces as best they could, but special forces and surprise raids would ultimately only slow down the aggressor. Mastery of the lost powers of the Prothean Empire was the secret to winning the war against the turians. And master that legacy the batarian people would, whatever it took.

It was a point of pride for all true batarians that they had clawed their way up into the galaxy against the odds. Not for them the easy paths of the asari or the turians: stumbling their way into unearned knowledge. The secrets of the Protheans hadn't fallen easily into their laps. They'd had to struggle and fight for every scrap of knowledge; and that struggle had made them strong.

Balak had been hearing rumours for some time of work on a secret weapon that would change the tide of the war. There were always rumours, of course, but this time around they seemed more substantial. Both the almost officially sanctioned channels and Balak's own private contacts were in agreement. The Hegemony's best scientists were working on something unlike anything anybody had seen before. Something that had been found in the Hades Gamma cluster almost two decades ago. Something that officially did not exist, had never existed. Something that had been lying dormant for millennia, waiting for its rightful masters to arrive.

And who knew what scrap of Prothean knowledge might be found under the ruin's on Solem's Redoubt? Perhaps the final thing necessary to unlock the secret of the mysterious weapon that would break the turians once and for all.

Balak scanned the briefing again, wishing that intelligence had been able to gather more information before the colony had fallen dark. As it was, there was very little of substance. Only isolated reports of colonists acting oddly, strange sightings and rumours of the most ridiculous kind.

_Geth, beyond the Veil?_ Preposterous. The geth were a quarian problem. The Hegemony had never had the need to meddle with AI - servitude and menial work was what lower castes were born for, after all - but had they chosen to do so, they would never have shown the weakness necessary for their own tools to rise up in rebellion against them.

But the quarians were fundamentally a weak people, just like their turian cousins, unfit to command even soulless machines. Weak, insular, and self-absorbed. And these were flaws that their synthetic offspring had inherited in turn. In two centuries the geth had never shown any interest in expanding beyond the borders of the old quarian systems.

No, Balak knew that the turians, not the geth, were the most likely source of trouble. They always were. Perhaps the Hierarchy had not been as willing to let go of this world as it had initially seemed. Not that it mattered.

Balak sought out his second, an ordinary looking young batarian who glared at him resentfully when he tracked him down. Barely showed the proper respect due to a superior, while doing just enough to avoid showing the level of disregard that would necessitate a duel of honour.

Days earlier, Charn had almost started a fight with a visiting Council Spectre in the middle of the promenade. Balak had been furious when he'd heard the news, his anger only slightly mollified by the amusing thought of Charn having to bow and scrape before one of Aria's elcor enforcers. Officially, of course, the elcor were barely sentient: two-eyed, dull-witted brutes not even worthy of joining the Hegemony in servitude. But unofficially, well. Charn was Charn.

_We're here on Omega to be the Hegemony's hidden blades in the dark,_ he'd hissed at his second when they were alone. _Hidden. That means not getting into eye-counting contests with the first Council lackey to wander through._

Charm had wanted to argue, Balak knew: had been waiting for him to try. But instead his inferior had flicked his eyes away deferentially, acknowledging his place.

Balak knew Charn dreamt of usurping his position: that was simply the way that the galaxy worked. It was how Balak himself had assumed command, seizing control after his old CO had been executed by firing squad all those years ago. And Charm was normally a competent second; competent enough that Balak could look beyond his hints at insubordination. But Balak could trace his bloodlines back to distant cousins of the Overseer himself, while Charm's veins carried the blood of peasants. Charn simply wasn't a threat.

"Have the men assembled within the hour," he ordered him now. "We have a world to reclaim."


End file.
